Doctor John Watson, Police Surgeon Scotland Yard 5
by Bartimus Crotchety
Summary: This is the story of how the bravest and most singular person I have ever met, took down the most dangerous man in London, Colonel Jack Moran. In spite of what you might have heard, that man was not Sherlock Holmes. This is the true Empty House.
1. Chapter 1

**Story Notes: **So begins the end. This is not going to line up with The Empty House exactly so don't worry if some facts seem out of place. My premise is that Watson wrote his accounts in a way that praised the accomplishments of Holmes, and downplayed his own role in the investigations, so just read the story as is and don't try to worry too much about that other account.

thanks for the encouragement along the way, I hope this is everything you've hoped for a conclusion.

that being said, here we go!

**Bart**

* * *

**Doctor John Watson, Police Surgeon: Scotland Yard 5**

**One Last War**

**Chapter One**

_By now, everyone has read "The Empty House" in the Strand Magazine. In that account, we hear of the downfall of Colonel Moran, and the resurrection of one Sherlock Holmes. I, Giles Lestrade, Chief Inspector of Scotland Yard was there for the events chronicled, I became privy to the actual happenings those fateful few days, and the story I have to tell, while resulting in the same outcome, was altogether different in particulars. _

_I made a promise that these details would never come to light, and I intend to keep that vow, however I wish to remember the truth and record it before it grows foggy in the hallways of my memory, an occurrence that is unfortunately frequent these days. Therefore, here is my tale. It is the story of how one man brought the inheritor of the title "most dangerous man in England" down to live the rest of his days in incarceration. How one individual out manoeuvred that fearsome tactical genius and took his true measure. It is the story of how the bravest and most singular person I have ever met, helped eliminate the last vestiges of that lethal cabal with no name._

_In spite of what you might have heard, that person was not Sherlock Holmes._

_Here is the account of Doctor John Watson, Police Surgeon: Scotland Yard, who thought he was done with danger of battle, but found himself embroiled in One Last War._

**---**

Lestrade waited in the hallway outside the room.

The furnishings were opulent and tasteful as only old money can manage, but the mood was sombre and it permeated the atmosphere of the place.

He watched servants pass going about their appointed duties, all were sorrowful and the maids had red-rimmed eyes. One of the upstairs servants collapsed and was taken away for a quiet consultation by an older staff member.

This, above any remark made to him, showed him the true tragedy of Ronald Adair's murder. The assertions made to him by the deceased man's mother and sister that he was indeed a good man where to be expected, and anticipated. No matter how evil and vile a person was to the world, their family almost by reflex would remember them in the most glowing terms right after the shock of their passing. However, especially in the case of nobility, you watched the servants for their true reaction. If a Lord was as kind as his family asserted, then the servants would show signs of sorrow, if not, you rarely saw a tear.

The air of mourning that seized the lower class in this grand abode showed Lestrade far more clearly that the young man was whom his relatives had put forth.

Their shocked melancholy matched his own, which did not journey far from his heart these days.

It was not hard to feel dreary with John Patterson's murder still unsolved.

The Yard had lost their share of men in the past, but none quite as legendary as this. The only death comparable in Lestrade's experience was Sherlock Holmes. However, Holmes had always remained apart and his passing met more with a sense of helplessness than personal experience and fond memory.

Patterson had always been as steady and solid as the North Star, a help and a hand on any investigation. Giles remembered being mentored in his early days by the solemn seeming gentleman who always had a twinkle in his eye. His brand of humour took some getting used to. You never could tell when he was serious until he laughed.

That night he arrived at Patterson's home and saw the man's body under the sheet just inside his back door, he walked to the edge of the small lot and spent some time regaining composure.

It was the perfect capper to a hellish month.

He still had repercussions coming from that whole Alister Eads debacle. The Bedlow Group was at present attempting to deflect the controversy surrounding the methods of their figurehead, a defence not helped by former patients and family stepping forward with horror stories of barbaric methods, but as soon as the media storm settled, those very powerful persons would remember Lestrade. He had also watched as Harold Rollins, the former Scotland Yard photographer, and erstwhile naive protégé of Eads, barely escaped the noose, but the young man's incarceration for eight years might make him wish he had not.

Now, Lestrade had to assimilate that one of the officers who he had always attempted to emulate was a limp body under a white sheet, murdered in his own yard.

How many blows could he take? How many could he endure before ennui set in? Lestrade came perilously close to retiring that day, but he knew Patterson would not have approved.

Watson was the one that pointed out that Patterson left his pistol behind when he went to the door; sure sign of a man ready for death, but that was small consolation.

Before Patterson died of a massive chest wound, he had created the letter M on the kitchen tiles in his own blood with four intersecting strokes showing he knew his killer. Who that might be, Lestrade's guesses were many but his answers few.

Scotland Yard could not find a witness to the fatal shot, it was not the sort of neighbourhood to deny seeing such an event, and with the amount of persons in the vicinity, a gunshot should have been apparent. For once, Watson had no theories, except that the M might have stood for Moriarty, because the memos that Holmes recovered from Milverton had a similar symbol on them.

They checked, without exception, Moriarty's known gang were either dead or incarcerated.

There was a chalkboard with the facts up in the common room, but as of yet no suspects or clues had been added in spite of their efforts.

Inspector Patterson, formerly of Scotland Yard, was laid to rest on a rainy Thursday afternoon in a small churchyard beside his wife, given full Metropolitan Service honours. To date, a burial was all the Yarders were able to do for him, a fact that haunted them.

That same night that Patterson was murdered, Master Sergeant Barlow Pierce, formerly of his Majesty's Royal Marines, was killed out front of the Diogenes Club beside his partner who did not realize his partner's assassination until he saw the man dead less than a step away missing the better part of his head.

There had not been a gunshot heard at that scene either.

Now, in this Park Lane mansion, through the door behind him, lay a young man in a grisly state, found by his sister and mother, the former carted away to a sanatorium for observation, the later receiving medical attention downstairs for a poor heart.

The press had already received their "no comment" statements and were off making up the difference for the next edition. Watson had arrived nearly half an hour before, but had yet to make the stairs, seeing to Lady Maynooth's health.

"If she gets any worse, let me know immediately," remarked a familiar voice as footsteps sounded on the stairs.

Lestrade let out a sigh of relief. These last few months he had come to rely on John Watson more than he cared to admit.

He watched his friend reach the landing and orient himself.

"Does it look like Patterson, and Pierce from Diogenes?" he inquired as he approached.

Lestrade nodded as he stood and opened the door. If it were anyone else he would have warned the man about the state of the body, but Doctor Watson had seen worse without so much as a flinch.

He shut the door behind them, as much as the splintered doorjamb would allow, as Watson's eyes swept the room.

It was the upstairs sitting room, the walls lined with bookshelves fulfilling their purpose, several opulently upholstered couches and a chair with an expensive humidor and paraffin-reading lamp

The body was on the floor behind a large teak desk covered with account sheets and coins dominating the half of the room near the window. Someone had thought to cover the corpse with a sheet.

"Shot with a large calibre, soft-nose revolver bullet?" Watson inquired as he studied the bodies positioning.

"Aye," Lestrade replied, but he kept back the twist knowing that his partner would see it soon enough.

Watson turned to the now closed door, and then back to the sitting room desk in front of the open window, Lestrade could see his forehead wrinkling.

"Did someone open that window after he was found?"

Lestrade answered that with a solemn shake of his head.

Watson's eyes swept the room, "No secret passageways in or out?"

"Not according to the boy's mum, she was here when the home was constructed, the father detested such theatrics."

"So, Ronald Adair was in this room at the top of a stairwell which would have enhanced any acoustics, with servants walking to and fro just beyond, and received a bullet to the head with no one hearing the sound of a shot?" Watson concluded.

"They had to force the door to enter, John, that window has a six meter drop beneath, with no gables or trellises to speak of, a soft flowerbed underneath with no footprints marring it," Lestrade supplied.

Watson nodded. "So what we have here is a man shot with no sound, in a room locked from the inside, and the only possible direction is through the window?"

"With a bullet from a gun which does not carry over the distance necessary," Lestrade concluded.

Watson sighed, "Holmes would have danced a jig at this one."

"Undoubtedly," Lestrade agreed.

Watson knelt and gingerly pulled the sheet back. Lestrade walked to the window trying not to look, he just felt too old to deal with the sight tonight.

"So young," Watson remarked.

"The Honourable Ronald Adair the only son of the Earl of Maynooth, a high colonial official in Australia, he likes to play whist at local clubs, had just returned from The Tankerville Club earlier this evening, he had won a few pounds lately in a successful partnership with another player." Lestrade checked his notepad. "His name was Colonel Jack Moran, he will be at Scotland Yard tomorrow for questioning, the other two partners at the table I have yet to ascertain but I'm sure Moran will know their names for sure."

Watson examined the body for a few more minutes in silence. He placed the sheet back over the ravaged face. He stood wearily, placed a hand on his side with a wince.

Lestrade restrained himself from asking about it, knowing all he would get as an answer is a scowl anyway.

Watson walked over to the window, he studied, not the ground beneath but the surrounding street of Park Lane. "Ah, there you are," he remarked. He turned to Lestrade and waved him over.

Lestrade looked past him into the affluent neighbourhood. "What am I looking for?"

"There is an awning on the building three doors down across the way, it has an attached strip of cloth," Watson informed as he pointed.

"What does that have to do with the murder?" Lestrade inquired, frustration tinting his voice.

"It is a trick I learned from marksmen in an expeditionary force I was attached to in India. They fire from a higher vantage point than their target because of the effects of gravity, they study the firing sight before hand for angles and the wind, they place a strip of cloth midway to see the last second wind direction, so they'll know what effect it may have on the projectile."

"But there was fog earlier, how was it possible that they could see?" Lestrade interjected.

Watson shrugged, "Holmes could have explained the phenomenon, but further away and from a down angle fog becomes transparent, so you cannot see the person firing at you but they can see you clearly."

Lestrade shuddered at the thought. "Why do you think our killer is firing from a distance?"

"There are several reasons," Watson replied holding up fingers to illustrate, "First, the man that was killed in front of Diogenes beside his partner was in the middle of an open street, anyone that approaches the club can be seen from that vantage, it is one reason they built the club at that location. Secondly, Patterson's back lot, softened by days of rain, was unmarked by footprints, the first constable on the scene checked very closely thinking he was shot from a short distance away. I think that Patterson figured out who killed him, he was trying to tell us."

Lestrade picked up the thought. "So there was a suspect Patterson knew was an expert shot, when Patterson was hit, he realized the distance and was writing a name in his blood when death took him?"

Watson nodded his face grim in the lamp light. "An inspector to his last breath," he said.

Lestrade thought for a few minutes. "It is all plausible, but how are they connected?"

Watson looked around for a few minutes; he found what he was searching for straightway. He held up Ronald Adair's folio, flipping it open he checked through the cards, he pulled one out and showed it to Lestrade.

It had a familiar print on it that Lestrade recognized immediately.

"The Diogenese Club?"

Watson nodded. "Patterson was the man who took out Moriarty's gang. Someone attempted to kill Mycroft Holmes using amazing resources, and an elaborate scheme encompassing everyone from established gentlemen down to common thugs. My brother was involved in that scheme, and after its failure was stalked by an assassin, someone well known to Mycroft. That assassin executed Algon's mentor Augustus Mayweather, yet another member of The Diogenes Club. What if we are on the edge of a war? What if Moriarty's gang was the tip of a deadly reef, of an organization that is a lot more dangerous and far reaching?"

Lestrade followed his line of reasoning. "That would mean that there is an organization out there as connected as the Diogenes Club, and now they have declared war, and we are cleaning up the casualties."

"Patterson knew something that would lead to the identity of this man, which is why he was killed first, his death, the Diogenes guard, and now this poor young club member were killed as a message to the Diogenes and Mycroft," Watson replied rubbing his tired eyes.

"Where is Mayweather?" Lestrade asked after a few minutes of contemplative silence.

Watson pointed down the street. "He thought he could find the sniper's firing site, maybe there was a trademark left behind. Some snipers leave objects as a sort of macabre signature."

Lestrade was about to make a snarky comment about Mayweather's background knowledge of sniping when they were both startled by a boom echoing up the lane.

They stared out the window at the bright flames engulfing the third story of a building further down; it was facing the house in which they stood.

"Is that..." Lestrade began but could find no more words.

Watson looked stricken in the orange glow. He turned from the sight and fell back against the wall, then replied, "That's where we thought he might have fired from."

Lestrade placed a hand on Watson's shoulder but no words would assuage the shock and grief. "I'm...so sorry, John."

Watson slid down to the floor his hands covering his face, in the distance the clang of a fire wagon pierced the night.

**---**

_After the fire was put out, there was a charred body found in that third floor, burned beyond recognition, he had several weapons on him that Mayweather was known to carry. Watson looked as ill as he did with that severe infection just a few weeks previous. It appeared as if Mayweather was not going to get the chance to repay his debt after all._

_If the death of Watson's erstwhile body guard was a shock to him, the man who was at that very moment setting foot back on English soil for the first time in over two years was about to shake us all to our very core!_

**---**

He stood on the gangway ignoring all the angry looks he was receiving from those who pushed on past, savouring, the polluted scent of London, the eerie fog enshrouded streets, the hustle and rhythmic sounds that fell on his ears like her heartbeat. For the first time in longer than he cared to remember, he was home.

He idly scratched the beard that he had been sporting for the last six months enjoying the thought of a nice shave; he replaced the dark lensed glasses that served to conceal his eyes from casual observation

He crossed and claimed a large trunk, the steward was complaining at the weight in terms that were turning the air blue.

Before he flagged a cab, he made his way to a newsstand and bought a copy of the _Times_.

Once he was ensconced the carriage and was underway, he checked the agony ads for an advertisement with a misspelling. He found one for a new hair tonik, using a cipher that only he and one other man in the world knew, he sussed out the message hidden in the type.

_Before you see W_

_Come see me_

_M_

He folded the paper and called out an address, for a local hotel he knew was discreet.

_I'll talk to Mary first, tomorrow, maybe she can tell me how to approach Watson. M can wait his turn._

He placed his hands on his cane taking in the sights and sounds around him with a smile.

_It's good to be home!_

* * *

**Chapter Notes: **Trust me in this journey. Keep hold of my hand. Things will make sense as we go along so stay close.

In George McDonald's Flashman series, Moran's full name is John Sebastian 'Tiger Jack' Moran. I think it fits the image he wants for himself to be nicknamed Jack rather than Sebastian. Sebastian is his name yes, but I just think Jack is more butch so I'm going with it.

Once again some of the facts will not line up, this installment will have some things in common with Empty House but if I were to line them up then you might as well go re-read Empty House, which is Arthur Conan Doyle's most deeply flawed work with more holes than rat nibbled Swiss Cheese wheel. (Yes I know GASP sacrilege!) So I hope to head off a lot of well meaning corrections by saying here, no I am not going strictly by cannon since this is the first story in this series with cannon president, I hope you will forgive me and just read it for what it is.

I decided against screen caps this time because of the complicated plot, instead I have added the covers I created for the installments on another website so check it out.

Thanks.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Notes:**I am sorry for the delay folks. I will blame it on the uncooperative Colonel Moran. I mean he is the supervillain and big baddie of the entire piece and he knows it, so after difficult negotiations I have finally reached a detente. Alister Eads was not this bad, James Watson was annoying and had a tendency to clean out my fridge and order stuff on my computer like Cognac bottle cozies but Moran has been worse. Ego? The desire to be in charge? I'm not sure what it is. I just have to accept that I might not get the epic quality from this story I desire, or at least I won't know it is until I see the reviews. Expectations can crush creativity sometimes, the weight of finishing off a work, it is far easier to write 15,000 words in five days on a new project **(The Case of the Prodigal Father...hint...hint check it out please!)** than just write 2,000 you are happy with on the well established one.

Thankyou for your patience, and I hope that this chapter and the ones to follow will feel like a fitting capper to this series. Now that this hurdle has been crossed I hope to use my Christmas vacation to put a dent in the rest of this installment.

enjoy!

**Bart**

* * *

**Doctor John Watson, Police Surgeon: Scotland Yard 5**

**One Last War**

**Chapter Two**

_Those days seem strange to me now. It was a time without the epochal presence of Sherlock Holmes, who now looms over us all with his towering intellect and untarnished successes, but in that era of his supposed death, we were at the mercy of our own wits. It was fortunate for me that I had beside me the only man who has ever baffled the Great Detective, the only individual whose limits are unfathomable to even that man's penetrating logic. _

_I had no way of knowing that these were the last moments of the relationship that had proven so beneficial to us both. No indicator to let me know that soon that third presence would be forcing their way disruptively back into the unit we had formed to combat his absence._

_I now look on that morning with a wistfulness that I have not lost in these long years since. I would not deprive the world of Holmes, but I found my own strength in those days without him, and I also found a friend that I had long thought solely his. Would I have allowed myself to rely on that closeness if I had known Holmes still lived? That question is one that has haunted me ever since._

**---**

Lestrade stretched his collar out from his neck once again. Clea promised him that she did not starch it but it sure felt as if she had.

She quirked an eyebrow at his grumbling, helped him get his tie straight and told him in her sauciest voice that she had always loved him in uniform, that ended most of his protestations for the moment.

He turned back to the beginning of the massive case file he had been swimming through for the last hour. Patterson was a meticulous note taker and his paperwork was usually very logical to follow, however he was seeing uncharacteristic gaps in the chain of evidence.

"What's with the zookeeper outfit?" said a voice at the door.

He glanced up and inwardly groaned when he saw it was Gregson. The big Swede had a mischievous glint in his eye.

"We have an open case concerning a member of nobility, hazard a guess," Lestrade explained closing the file in disgust.

Gregson winced. "Inquest?"

"Inquest," Lestrade confirmed.

Gregson thought for a few moments. "Hard-arse Hollow?"

Lestrade nodded with a weary sigh.

The two men stood silent, both reliving bad experiences with that particular judge.

"You stopping by for a reason, or just wanted to gloat?" Lestrade asked leaning back in his chair giving the other man his most irritated glare.

Gregson stepped into the office and pulled the door closed. "I heard a rumour that Watson is performing an autopsy on Mayweather in bay four."

Lestrade replied with a solemn nod.

Gregson sat heavily into a nearby chair. "What's going on with our city, Giles? Patterson, that bloke from Diogenes, some chap from the Lane, now all this about Mayweather getting blown up?"

Lestrade turned the case file around to Gregson. "Look through this and tell me if you see something amiss."

Gregson glanced at the cover page, then his eyes found Lestrade's with a start. "This is Patterson's master file on Moriarty's gang, you think we missed something?"

"Or someone. just look through it, please," Lestrade requested.

Gregson began to read with no further preamble.

Lestrade and Gregson were not friends; there was too much enmity in their background for that. However, they respected each other, all vestiges removed. Lestrade was the better delegator, but Gregson was the resident evidentiary genius. He was not in the class of a Sherlock Holmes, but more than one Inspector had brought files to his attention in the past to see if he could find a thread they missed. Gregson had an ordered mind that could recognize patterns in unrelated detail. He lacked the imagination to follow those threads without footwork, which was his real weakness, but when it came to determining weak points in a pending case there was no one better at hand.

"There is information missing," Gregson concluded.

Lestrade nodded. "What's missing?"

Gregson perused the document again. "I see gaps in the suspect file, known accomplices, and there seems to be gaps in suspected activities, in particular, murders attributed."

"I was hoping I was wrong," Lestrade concluded.

Gregson was quiet then he ventured, "We have a leak."

"Worse," Lestrade concluded, "we have a mole."

To himself he murmured, "That bastard James Watson was right."

"Who?" Gregson inquired.

Lestrade rolled his eyes at the memory at the memory. "You are better off not knowing."

---

Lestrade noticed there were some constables gathered around outside the dissection bays, when he went to check on Watson's progress, he saw the telltale sign of a bet in the air.

He came up behind the nearest gambler. "What's the bet?'

The oblivious young man called over his shoulder, "Wilkins is assisting the Doc in bay four, we're betting on how long it takes for him to come up for air."

"Oh really?" Lestrade replied in a conversational way.

Suddenly, the young man recognized his voice, he turned around to confirm with a sheepish grin. "Oh, hello sir...I mean...Chief Inspector."

The other constables immediately dispersed without a backward glance leaving their comrade to his fate.

Lestrade let the boy squirm for a few moments before growling, "Carry on!"

With a quick sigh of relief, he left.

Lestrade shook his head ruefully before giving the bay door a knock.

Wilkins came out looking a little green. "Go on in Chief Inspector," he said as he passed hurriedly making his way to the outside door amidst some muffled cheers from the man with the winning time.

Lestrade caught the scent of burned flesh, so he grabbed the menthol as he entered the room, his eyes watering immediately as he applied it under each nostril.

Watson was bent to his work, in a green apron, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his forearms showing his wiry muscle as he pulled on something in the blackened body with forceps.

"Give me a moment, please Giles," Watson informed through clenched teeth as he worried at the object, finally it came loose with a pop.

Watson held it up to the light. It was the end of a blade of some type.

"Is that was killed him?" Lestrade postulated.

Watson shook his head, "His neck was snapped by someone with very strong hands, this might be how he was subdued enough to allow it."

He dropped the object into a metal tray with a clink.

Lestrade began to walk over to the body, but Watson held up a hand. "You don't want to get too close, your uniform would absorb the odour, step outside, I'll be with you shortly."

Lestrade took his advice; he stepped back out into the hallway wiping the menthol off with his handkerchief. True to his word, Watson joined him shortly thereafter; he was settling his coat into place.

Lestrade knew that Watson needed to talk, but would not bring up the subject voluntarily so he remarked, "It seems only yesterday that bloke was slamming me to the ground and placing a knife to my neck.

Watson glanced at him with red-rimmed eyes. "Not now, Giles, we'll talk about it in a few days, we need to focus on what's immediately ahead, please."

"Alright," Lestrade replied, he did not comment further, to press the topic was a violation of their unspoken agreement against sentimentality, besides if Watson told you he would discuss something later, you could rely on his word. "We may have a larger problem."

"There's a mole in Scotland Yard," Watson remarked.

Lestrade stopped the man with a hand on his shoulder. "You knew?"

Watson shrugged. "I suspected."

Lestrade gritted his teeth against the sudden ire. "How long have you suspected and said nothing?"

Watson leaned against the wall, the weight of his words apparent in his posture. "You cannot function without faith in the men around you; I would never deign to take that away on mere allegation."

"How long, John," Lestrade reasserted in the calmest tone he could manage.

"Since James," Watson replied his tired eyes meeting Lestrade's own. "My brother takes his own safety very seriously, if he believed the Yard compromised, then there was a very good chance he was right. James has survived being a right bastard for all these years by shear instinct alone. I trust his sense of self preservation more than I have ever trusted him."

Lestrade knew Watson was correct, if he had not seen the proof with his own eyes, he would have debated the point. "What do you suggest?"

Watson was quiet for a few moments, carefully choosing his next words. "We keep it between us, knowing there is a traitor in our midst, but not revealing that knowledge may prove to be advantageous when we have to use misdirection."

"Ever the soldier, John?" Lestrade said in a manner meant to be joking. However, Watson's smile was bitter, as he replied, "Apparently."

A constable made his way to the duo. "Chief Inspector?"

"Yes?"

"There is a Colonel Moran here to see you, Hopkins is doing the preliminary interview, but he told me to come get you."

Watson indicated for Lestrade to go first, "Mayweather is not going anywhere, I'll complete the examination later.

"Very well," Lestrade added, "Let's go meet Colonel Moran."

---

_I have often thought of this moment over the intervening years, the first meeting face to face of Watson and Moran. I would like to say that there was a feeling of two powers colliding, that there was a sense of impending battle in the air. I would love to give credence that the significance of this encounter was somehow supernaturally apparent, one that had been months, nay years in the making unbeknownst to us. However, the reality was much more benign...at first._

---

Lestrade knocked on the door to the interrogation room, Hopkins stuck his head out. When he realized who it was, he came out the rest of the way after turning back to the room and saying goodbye in a manner that implied that he was getting along famously with the inhabitants before shutting the door behind him.

"I did the preliminary interview to save some time," Hopkins informed as he handed over his notes. Lestrade was happy to see the usual Hopkins attention to detail. "This will do, Inspector, thank you for your help." Hopkins looked a bit guilty then handed Lestrade a book he had been concealing under his arm. "The author's page," Hopkins supplied while his ears turning red.

Lestrade stared at the book curiously. _"Three Months in the Jungle_," Lestrade read, he glanced at the author's page and saw a lot of information that would help and a scrawled signature.

_To Stanley Hopkins,_

_May all your hunts be successful,_

_Colonel Sebastian "Tiger Jack" Moran_

Lestrade gave Hopkins an amused look. "In the midst of all your school boy fawning did you manage to glean anything useful?"

Hopkins looked bashful. "Everything I gathered is in those notes."

Watson clapped the younger man's shoulder. "Thank you Stanley, I'm sure it will help."

He nodded and began walking away, then paused, "if you don't mind, Chief Inspector, leave my book on my desk when you are through?"

"You have my word, _Tiger_," Lestrade called with a cheeky grin.

Hopkins sighed at the new nickname and walked on out.

Watson and Lestrade read the information comparing notes.

"Born to Sir Augustus Moran, one time ambassador to Persia, 1840," Lestrade mentioned with an eyebrow raised.

Watson sighed. "Noble birth I guess we should expect some sense of entitlement."

"You mean we should expect him to be an arrogant arse," Lestrade added with a grin.

Watson rolled his eyes. "Of course, that's what I said."

"Moving on," Lestrade replied, "very impressive military service record."

"Hence the Colonel in Colonel Moran," Watson said with a wry smile.

Lestrade gave him the glare he deserved, and then began reciting the specifics," He was educated at Eton College and the University of Oxford before embarking upon a military career. Formerly of the 1st Bangalore Pioneers, he served in the Jowaki Expedition of 1877-1878 and in the Second Anglo-Afghan War, seeing action at the Battle of Charasiab, 6 October 1879 (for which he was mentioned in dispatches); the Battle of Sherpur, 23 December 1879; and at Kabul."

Watson listened quietly. He stroked his chin deep in thought. "What has he been doing since?"

"He is a devoted sportsman and highly skilled shot," Lestrade continued, "he's the author of two books _Heavy Game of the Western Himalayas_ in 1881 and _Three Months in the Jungle_ in 1884." Lestrade whistled under his breath, "Tough bloke evidently, he reportedly once crawled down a drain after a wounded man-eating tiger according to this forward."

Watson appeared to be adding all the facts up in his head, his eyes distant. "I'll stay in the background, Giles, I'll let you draw him out, if he chooses to engage me then I'll step in, but only then."

Lestrade studied his friend for a few moments. "More strategy, John?"

Watson gave him that lopsided grin that could mean everything or nothing. "We are just having a friendly chat, Lestrade, no need for strategy."

"You never pull up your trousers in the morning without some sort of strategic intent," Lestrade grumbled.

Watson cocked an eyebrow. "Why Lestrade, my trousers are none of your concern."

Lestrade rolled his eyes and opened the door to the room.

There were two men in the room

The younger was dressed snappily with nary a button or hair out of place, his hands clasped behind his back his dark eyes missing nothing. An older man was seated at the interview table, broad shouldered, thick necked and imposing with graying hair that had receded from his head but with thick moustaches that led into his side burns in a stylish manner worn by many in the upper class. His eyes twinkled with benevolence but they were an eerie pale brown that glinted yellow in the overhead lamps.

"Chief Inspector Lestrade, I presume," he stated in a deep rumbling voice with a hint of a growl.

"Colonel Sebastian Moran, sorry to keep you waiting sir, this is my associate and Police Surgeon John Watson," Lestrade replied acknowledging Watson. Watson stepped forward and accepted a large paw handshake from Moran. "This is my associated Bensen Pierson," he added, the younger man tipped his hat but stayed near the wall his eyes showing no warmth.

"Thank you for coming on such short notice," Lestrade informed in his most placating manner, he situated the notes the Hopkins had given him. "I believe you already know the matter which this is concerning?"

Moran's face twisted into mourning. "Yes, young Ronald Adair, I cannot believe that he is no longer with us. Who would do such a horrible thing?"

"Such as," Watson interrupted. Lestrade shot him a glare that he changed the parameters of their plan.

Moran blinked in surprise. "Why murdering him, of course, what are you insinuating?"

Watson shrugged. "It is just that no one here has said anything about murder, neither has Hopkins according to his notes, and the papers for all of their fishing have postulated suicide."

Lestrade immediately backed away and let Watson have his reign.

Moran did not sputter or lose his temper; he was silent and impassive for a moment then said, "It only takes a simple deduction on my part that if this is a suicide there would have been no need to question me until days later while discovering a motive. The face that I was asked last night just hours after seeing him last, shows that I am a candidate for the expeditor of his demise."

"So tell us about that last time, did you part on good terms?" Watson pressed.

Moran looked at Lestrade curiously. "I thought you were the inspector here, Lestrade, and yet this pretentious sawbones has taken over our chat."

Lestrade leaned back in his chair. "He is asking good questions, I see no reason to interfere. So did you part with Ronald Adair on good terms?"

Moran's glare filled with some emotion that Lestrade could not fathom. It was gone as quickly as it touched his countenance and the pleasant man was back.

"The last time I saw Ronald was our card game last night. We had a very profitable whist partnership in which we have won two-hundred and forty pounds in less than two months, for me to wish him dead is preposterous. I am deeply offended that you would allege such a thing."

"You live on Conduit Street in Mayfair," Watson interjected, "two-hundred and forty pounds, while considerable by most standards might pay for your liquor cabinet."

Lestrade glanced at Watson in surprise; he had never seen his friend so openly adversarial like this. Watson's face was cold and impassive his hazel eyes twinkling with derision. He was being deliberately impertinent and Lestrade could not see why.

The man behind Moran took a step forward but stopped when Moran casually raised his hand. Lestrade saw that there was a hierarchy in place here. Undoubtedly, the Colonel still had troops to command.

"I give you my word as a soldier of the crown that I did not kill Ronald Adair," Moran replied in a controlled even tone.

Watson suddenly leaned on the table and met the other man's gaze. "Being a soldier of the crown does not mean you are an honorable man, you need to make your oath on an organization that has fewer killers in their ranks."

Moran's eyes flashed with amber fire. "I want you to be clear, are you defaming my word?"

Watson's smile was as cold as the winter water in the Thames. "I am in no way defaming your word, sir, I merely stating that referring to your status as a soldier to absolve you of a murder might not be your most advantageous path."

"You do not want me as an enemy, Doctor," Moran replied with a growl as the energy in the room changed, Lestrade's hand crept to where his revolver was concealed.

Watson's smile never wavered as he leaned closer. "Finally, something we have in common."

Moran's furious eyes turned on Lestrade. "If we are here to answer questions then we will continue, but without the Doctor's presence since he can do nothing but insult me it appears. However, if this is interrogation I insist my lawyer be present."

Lestrade kept his hand near his pistol as he replied. "It appears we should schedule an interrogation, you should not leave the city until we have discussed the matter further."

Moran nodded, his eyes and Watson's still locked in silent combat as he accepted his hat and cane from his associate, they both left with no glance back.

As the door shut behind them, Lestrade collapsed, and then spun on Watson. "Why did you antagonize the man, tell me now!" he bellowed. "So help me, John, if your explanation is not worthy I will throw you out the gates of Scotland Yard myself!"

Watson sat across from Lestrade in the recently vacated seat, his smile insouciant. "Stop being dramatic, Lestrade, besides your back would go out if you attempted such a course."

Lestrade did his best to calm down, he breathed slower and more evenly, closing his eyes a moment then after regaining his composure he restated his query, "Why did you deliberately antagonize Colonel Moran, John?"

Watson leaned back in the chair, his eyes unfocused. "We have three murders now committed by someone who can fire accurately from a distance, and suddenly a man directly connected with one of the victims happens to be a big game hunter and sport shooter. We think there might be a secret organization involved, and suddenly a man with command experience trailing a highly trained and dangerous soldier walks through our door." His eyes focused on Lestrade waiting for him to put it together, not assuming he lacked the ability.

_I am so glad you are not Holmes._

He is either our killer or had it done," Lestrade confirmed.

Watson nodded. "He was not here to answer questions, he was here scouting us for reasons I cannot ascertain."

Lestrade checked his pocket watch them rolled his eyes. "We will have to hold our speculation until after the hearing, unfortunately.

Watson nodded, but he was obviously deep in the realms of thought as he followed Lestrade out.

---

_We had met the enemy it had appeared, but we could do nothing about if for the time being. Scotland Yard is an organization with a bureaucracy that must be appeased. Watson and I spent the better part of two hours in its fickle grasp testifying as to the investigation at the inquest. In keeping with his meticulous style, Judge Hollow gave me an intense grilling, however, he kept Watson on the witness stand just long enough to state his findings, showing that Watson's reputation must have preceded him into the halls of justice. While we were involved in this tedium, there was another man in London making his own plans, someone who was about to set the entire city on its collective ear._

---

Moran and Pierson settled in the seat of their waiting carriage. Pierson was livid. "I will kill him for you sir, slowly and by inches, just give your leave."

Moran was in full temper himself, but and was tempted by the offer. He changed the subject. "Did Benjamin send word that Mayweather is dead? I know there was an explosion but I am not satisfied unless there is a body. "The Ghost" is far too dangerous to leave unaccounted for in this affair."

Pierson swallowed his anger long enough to give a report. "I received the telegram this morning, the wording was off, but the news was affirmative."

Moran nodded his eyes thoughtful. "Everything is proceeding apace, it is only a matter of time before Holmes makes himself known, then we can end this."

"And kill John Watson as well?" Pierson added his tone hopeful.

"I hate to disappoint you, Pierson," Moran replied, "but I intend to kill Major Watson myself."

Pierson did indeed look disappointed but he kept his face neutral. "Of course, that is your privilege, sir."

Moran sighed. "Pierson, you are sitting on an envelope that I believe is meant for my eyes."

Pierson looked confused but his hand searched under his back and pulled out the envelope in question, he handed it over to his superior. Moran opened the letter with a flick of a lethal looking knife he pulled out of his sleeve, he extracted the epistle and studied it in silence a slow smile growing on his face.

"We have scouted 221b?" he inquired after a moment.

"There is an empty house across that would make a perfect vantage point for firing, we have acquired a key," Pierson confirmed.

Moran settled back into the cushion as the carriage continued on its way.

"Finally," he said with one of the few genuine smiles that Pierson had ever seen on his face.

---

"How do you manage it?" Lestrade lamented as he and Watson departed the Bailey.

"Manage what?" Watson replied, but his lopsided grin showed he knew Lestrade's subject.

Lestrade glanced both ways as they decended. "How do you cow Hollow so completely that he is actually respectful towards your person?" He demanded impatiently.

Watson pursed his lips as if he was surprised at Lestrade's question. "Oh, that. Other than treating a certain unmanly rash once upon a time, I have no theories."

Lestrade stopped him with a hand to his chest. "You know something to back Hard-arse down and you never said a word?"

Watson looked properly appalled. "Patient/Doctor confidentiality is not a bartering tool."

Just as the conversation was about to get interesting, a wizened old bookseller with dark glasses slipped out from behind a pillar and collided with Watson.

The old dusty codger dropped his books all over the stairs and began to curse Watson all he was worth with a raspy growl.

"Look at tha mess ya made, canya not look were yer goin? Firs editions they is!" he grumbled.

Lestrade was about to step in and castigate the codger for being the instigator, but Watson waved him off as he helped the elder secure his books and slip the strap back around the stack. "I am sorry sir; my name is Doctor John Watson my practice is in Kensington. If there is any damage I'll pay for it, you have my word." He slipped the man his card. The old man stared at it eyeing Watson suspiciously, and then threw the books back over his shoulder and limped off grumbling invectives.

"Why did you let that crazy bully you?" Lestrade demanded while Watson retrieved his cane and checked it for nicks.

Watson shrugged. "I think he was taller than he appears, almost bent double, if he comes to me about the books I can help his back."

Lestrade clapped him on the shoulder. "You are a good man, John Watson, the best I have ever known."

Watson smiled. "I'm still not breaking confidentiality to tell you what Hollow's affliction is."

"You selfish bastard," Lestrade said in a joking tone as he flagged a cab.

They were so intent on their good-natured argument they did not see that the old bookseller had slipped behind a pillar within earshot. The man straightened out his back showing that he was indeed taller than he appeared. He removed his dark glasses revealing watery gray eyes, which he wiped angrily with the back of a gloved hand.

"So close, after so long...so close," he whispered.

He bent back double and limped off in the other direction.

* * *

**Story Notes: **I made a few choices that I need to address. Once again I am going my own way with this story. It is only going to have somethings in common with The Empty House, so please bare that in mind. Call it pastiche or what have you but that is the truth. All will be revealed as the differences in the this account and the "official" one. Having Holmes accost Watson outside of the Bailey comes from the Grenada Series and makes so much sense to me that I kept it. I like to think my Holmes is closer to the Livanov Holmes though, and my Watson shall always remain Ian Hart's portrayal I'll have to see if I can develop a screen cap to this effect sometime. In the past I have felt a little trapped into writing scenes based around the screen caps, since I don't want to restrict myself in any way shape or form for this installment I have forgone the screen caps this time but I might add them afterward if they fit.

Thanks for reading!

**Bart**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Notes:** This is the most intimidating thing I have ever written. You have clamored for it, and anticipated it, I hope I delivered. Just one quick note. I and my sounding board for all my fiction went to see the Sherlock Holmes movie. As soon as we came out the door she turned to me and said, "That Watson is your Watson!" I thought as much but I wanted to see if she thought the same thing. It was great to see that capable, irascible, and in some cases DANGEROUS foil to Holmes's genius on the screen. I just wish they had my Lestrade! I think the constable they added by the name of Clark comes closest to my Chief Inspector, oh well can't have everything LOL!

I hope you guys like this chapter as much as I do. I think it is worthy or I wouldn't be posting it.

Here's hoping you agree.

These are Arthur's characters but this is the scene I wish he would have written.

thanks!

**Bart**

* * *

**Doctor John Watson, Police Surgeon: Scotland Yard 5**

**One Last War**

**Chapter Three**

_In what has become a long and enjoyable association with John Watson, I have been witness to his readers asking questions about his writing many times._

_Without exception, the most frequently questioned work has concerned The Empty House account, and the return of the Great Detective to the ranks of the living._

_"How did you forgive him so easily?" they ask with their voices thick with incredulity. Watson developed a pat answer that has always seemed to sooth. "I was just so grateful to have him back, to hold a grudge would have been petty in the face of such a miracle," he will remark with his warmest smile. That lopsided Watson grin has gotten him through many tight spots over the years, and it never fails to work its magic as they walk away with all doubts sated._

_We always exchange a wry smile and go on our way._

_What really happened, why Holmes now sports a gold incisor, are matters kept in strictest confidence, and since this account will never see the light of day, it shall remain so._

_Forgive Holmes easily? It is always difficult to forgive, even those we love with no reservation. In this instance, John Watson had more to forgive than any man I have seen in all my long years. _

_In the end, I don't think he ever has forgiven Holmes entirely._

---

Watson paused at the carriage door as they disembarked in front of his practice; he lit a cigarette cupping the match against his palm.

"On the corner, to our left leaning casually against the lamp post with a gray overcoat," He informed Lestrade before shaking the match out.

Lestrade bent down to flick a bit of detritus off his spit shined boot, with a glance he took in the very man Watson had indicated.

"Yes," he confirmed.

Watson paid the cabby and graciously ushered Lestrade to the door, which was opened by Watson's fiery Spanish day maid.

"I have been sending your patients to Doctor Ferraro like you asked, so many we can't get anything done! Some French bloke came by earlier asking after Mrs. Watson, I bent his ear."

Watson was up to that moment listening with half an ear stubbing out his cigarette, at that last statement she had his full attention.

"Someone was asking for Mary?" he inquired with an edge of anger, but with a hint of pain showing that grief was still hovering.

She nodded. "I told him to sod off before I called a constable. It was inappropriate for a gentleman to call on a lady without her husband anyways."

Watson nodded his face impassive. "Thank you Isadora, the Inspector and I will be in my office.

"Be sure to ring if you need anything," she reminded Watson in a tone that almost sounded commanding. Watson gave her a smile and waved Lestrade on in to his waiting area and through to the modified parlour that served as his office.

Watson took off his hat and coat settling into his office chair with a sigh, Lestrade sat across wishing he had stopped home to get out of uniform.

"So you think Moran killed Patterson?" Lestrade inquired.

Watson pulled out a sheet of paper and wrote something holding it up to Lestrade, it was the letter M in the same angle that Patterson had smeared in on his kitchen tile. "I think that the man who shot him did so standing under a gas lamp at the end of the lane so Patterson could see who he was. The shooter has an enormous ego, so much that he is willing to take dangerous risks just so the victim knows who killed him."

Lestrade crossed his legs while giving that some thought. "Why else would Moran fire the shot himself when he has that Pierson bloke to do his bidding, he is practically an attack dog, did you see how Moran had to call him off?"

Watson flashed that sly grin that Lestrade had come to know very well. "Why do you think I was trying so hard to provoke Moran? I needed to see the nature of their association."

Lestrade laughed. "So you pushed Moran to see if they were fellow soldiers or if he was the general?"

"Exactly," Watson replied with a wink, "I am never rude unless there is intent."

"Otherwise you would be James?" Lestrade teased.

Watson winced as he stood and crossed to the decanters and poured a small brandy. He offered to Lestrade, but was turned down with a wry smile and point to his badge. "Alas, on duty. Who is that bloke out front and why is he watching you?"

Watson sat back down and took a sip. "Diogenes Club, according to my source, sent by Mycroft. I noticed that he was more interested in my companion than he was with me; I'm not sure of the implications."

They were startled by a commotion at the door.

"He tol me to come here, I got his card don I?" came the familiar raspy voice.

"He doesn't waste much time,," Lestrade remarked with a grimace as the old bookseller came barrelling through the door fending off a determined Isadora.

"I'm sorry, doctor, he just pushed his way in, said you know him," she informed tugging on the old man's tattered sleeve.

"It's allright, Isa, I asked him to come by," Watson informed her with a placating smile.

"Next time you've got crazy charity dropping in you might want to inform me of it," she sputtered with her hand on her hip.

"I forgot to mention, would you bring us our tea in a little while?" Watson inquired in his most placating tone.

She glowered at the mumbling old man and stalked out, arms crossed angrily.

"Dats one mean lass you got theah doctor," the bookseller complained as he began while unstrapping his books. "I got bent pages on three of my books, Marlowe, Nicholas Nickelby, and this here firs edition of Proust's Captive."

Lestrade was appalled at the man taking advantage of Watson's generous nature, he was about to say so when Watson turned to his bookshelves to make room.

Suddenly the bookseller's bowed back straightened and he began removing hat, glasses, a fake beard and false nose and wig. He only saw the man in profile but the face was unmistakable. Lestrade sat down in his recently vacated chair with a whoosh. He wanted to call out to warn Watson but he could not get the breath.

---

_In numerous times over the course of my career I have been called upon to perform duties that take me through the night to dawn. I know that the new day officially begins at midnight but there is something about the sun peeking over the horizon that informs a man that the next day has arrived. There are always portents, a lightening of the sky, shapes once vague begin to focus, the birds begin their morning conversation...all of them telling you that the sun is approaching, no matter how closely you watch the sun manages to slip by, daybreak comes from the dusk._

_For me in that moment things slowed down, I saw the whole picture for the first time._

_The attempt to destroy Holmes's reputation, his tight knit support and his lodgings in one fell swoop, Mycroft's knowledge of law concerning those once thought dead, the way Mrs. Hudson maintained 221b Baker Street precisely how Holmes had left it, minus the fire damage. I had never thought to ask, but odd now that I think about it._

_However, there was one omen...one portent that trumped them all, words spoken to me from a man so close to a mental collapse I could almost see him crumbling before my eyes._

"_I'm tired, Lestrade. So tired I can barely function. Too tired to sleep, too exhausted to think, and so worn out that I often imagine I am becoming transparent. Wishing I were transparent, so then I could be a ghost, like I already feel I am." _

"_I see him, Lestrade, in my dreams; I often feel he is still on this earth somewhere. I keep expecting him to show up in my office, whip off one of those dreadful disguises and ask me for a smoke. At times, I wonder if I am going quite mad. Other days, I wonder if I have been mad for some time and was not aware."_

_Deep in his heart Watson had known, but could not allow hope to take root. He had seen the empty pool at the bottom of those falls with his own eyes._

_He had even told James his brother on the docks when they went to see him off._

"_The only brother I have ever known died three years ago. If he should choose to return from the grave, him I would welcome,"_

_What connection did he have with Holmes that gave him this knowledge? I cannot hazard a guess. There are some things beyond the realm of my humble understanding._

_All I do know is that my first impulse was to warn Watson, but when I saw Holmes, it was clear to me that my warning should be for him. I could see that he did not know just how changed his Boswell had become..._

---

"I can take the Marlow and the Proust, but I'm afraid I have everything Dickens ever wrote..." Watson stated as he turned back.

His eyes met the familiar gray gaze, and the sight of the dead brought to life transfixed him, proof of resurrection standing in his parlour wearing a familiar grin and tattered clothes.

"Hello, Watson, I hope you have not missed me overmuch," Holmes said with a smile.

Lestrade saw Watson's face go white, it was too soon after his side injury and subsequent infection, the man was still not in top form.

Lestrade leapt up and shoved Holmes out of the way managed to get Watson over a nearby chaise before the man collapsed.

Holmes strode over to the decanters to pour Watson a brandy while Lestrade steadied him. "Watson, can you hear me?"

"I had no idea he would be this affected," Holmes mumbled as he handed Lestrade the brandy which he passed to Watson's unsteady hands.

Holmes seemed almost put out about the scene that Watson was causing. "Where's Mary? Perhaps she can help set him right," Holmes supplied his eyes roaming the office as if she was standing nearby.

"Where's Mary?" Watson asked in a shock-tinged tone completely devoid of life and vitality, handing the brandy back to Lestrade.

Lestrade saw his hazel eyes flashing with a naked rage unlike any he had witnessed before. Holmes was typically oblivious to his peril.

The tall, slender man walked closer to Watson, animated as he recounted his earlier visit. "Yes, where is your wife, I inquired after her earlier and your impertinent maid was rather rude to me."

"Holmes," Lestrade began.

The next moments were a blur to Lestrade, he was about to say something soothing to Watson, but until he saw Holmes on the floor his stunned eyes staring up at his former flatmate standing over him trembling in rage, he had not even seen the man move.

Watson turned to Lestrade. "See to him, I...I'll be..." He lost his train of thought in the midst of anger so red as to be capable of murder, but aware of it enough to know he should walk away before acting.

He pointed to the door and began striding out, stopping Lestrade from following with a trembling hand, the office door slammed and he was gone. There was another muffled crash from the street door, and Lestrade saw him headed off up the street sans hat and cane, head down, in a direction that allowed Lestrade to guess the destination. Lestrade's eyes caught a movement in the shadows across the street, but when he glanced up it was only a trick of the light.

"Wha...What happened, Lestrade? Has the man taken leave of his senses?" Holmes grumbled as he picked himself off the floor and examined his jaw for a dislocation.

Lestrade immediately thought of some very vicious things to say, Holmes clearly deserved it, however, maybe it was his own association with Watson that allowed him to see Holmes in less sinister light. It was possible that Holmes really did not know all his friend had endured in his absence, or had failed to gauge just how much he meant to the man with whom he had shared so much. It was this theory that stayed Lestrade's tongue.

"You are the deductive genius, Holmes, what do your eyes tell you? Look about," Lestrade replied goading Holmes's intellect.

Holmes glared at the Inspector wiping the blood from the corner of his mouth, and then his trained eye began travelling the office, roaming over the furnishings and the newest books, the papers on Watson's desktop, his eyes settled on the coat and hat that Watson had left behind. He went white when his intellect informed him of its verdict.

"How long?" he asked just above a whisper.

Lestrade drank the Brandy that Watson had set down; he would drink on the job just this once.

"She died late winter last year."

Holmes leaned on the back of a nearby chair his shoulders slumped in misery. "Reoccurrence of Rheumatic Fever?" he postulated.

Lestrade answered with a grave nod.

If someone had told Lestrade what occurred next, he would have thought them mad. He had just turned away from Holmes to pour another brandy when he heard a loud thump. He spun around, his hand stowing into his coat for his trusty revolver, but it was only Holmes on the floor with his back to the desk, pale and wane.

"He will never forgive me this, Lestrade, how could he?" he stated with a voice so thick with despair that Lestrade's chest clenched in sympathy.

Lestrade hesitated for a few moments, then he pulled a chair over to Holmes, handed the seated man the brandy he had poured and sat down, his hands on his knees letting the amateur regain his strength.

"He nearly drowned trying to find your body at Reichenbach, a devotion that pure and earnest will not be swayed easily, don't lose hope," Lestrade informed Holmes in the kind tone he used when called upon to notify families.

Holmes eyes flashed with anger. "I am aware, Lestrade, I pulled him from the pool myself disguised as a shepherd, they were watching so I could do no more,"

Lestrade sighed. "They?"

"There are matters that are beyond you, Lestrade, things I cannot discuss, and you would not understand even if I could." Holmes replied in his cold arrogant tone.

Lestrade felt much of the old anger returning, however, he restrained himself, asking what would his friend Watson do in this moment. He had his answer.

"We know there is a larger organization at work, Holmes, we have thwarted several of their plans already, Watson determined earlier today that Colonel Moran may just be the mastermind behind it all, before your sudden resurrection we were discussing our next move."

He was studying Holmes's face for reaction, Holmes gaped at the Inspector his eyes wide with surprise.

Lestrade leaned back, crossed his legs with a contented look on his face. "So, we were correct."

"You did not know for sure,?" Holmes sputtered, outraged.

Lestrade gave Holmes his most infuriating grin. "Not until your reaction, really Holmes I thought you would school your features better than that."

"Damn it, Watson," Holmes grumbled.

"I may have a tell, but your face is like reading a book," Lestrade replied warming to the tease.

Holmes smiled. It took Lestrade aback. "Actually Lestrade, you don't have a tell in the strictest sense, you are just so dearth in duplicity that you lack the capacity to lie effectively. So when you seek to be less than forthcoming your lack of expression in the attempt to show no sign is rather obvious."

Lestrade glanced off in the direction in which Watson had gone. "Damn it, Watson."

Holmes's head tilted to the side as his mind began to assimilate what had just occurred. "You did say that you determined Colonel Moran was the mastermind, how did you come by that assumption, or even come into contact with the man?"

"Watson determined that Patterson, the Diogenes guard, and Ronald Adair were killed from some distance by a man with some sort of silenced rifle. Suddenly a man with a reputation for his abilities in such matters comes through the door this morning having been the last to see Ronald Adair alive outside of his family, a man in the company of a soldier of some stripe who defers to his will," Lestrade recounted watching Holmes at work, realizing with amusement that he had actually missed the sight.

"Occam's Razor, very good Doctor. Watson has made many accurate guesses from very little information; he was always good at doing just that. I may be one of the world's finest at deductive reasoning, but Watson is the best I have ever seen at inductive," Holmes fishing out a pipe from his coat pocket.

Lestrade winced at the nearly forgotten smell of Holmes's foul shag. "What is the difference?"

Holmes blew out a contented cloud as he responded, "Deductive takes concrete fact into account and thus educated in the facts of the case makes his theories. Inductive is less exact and relies on instinct, with very little information or clues makes leaps of deduction then seeks to prove the theory with the facts, essentially making guesses at the first when there is little to follow and finding the thread to the truth rather than going where the clues lead from the beginning."

Lestrade considered the implications. "Inductive sounds dangerous; if you guess wrong you exhaust your resources in the wrong direction."

Holmes pulled out his pipe to punctuate the next words with the tip. "Precisely, Lestrade, but that presupposes that you guess wrong, in your experience, how often does Watson commit that mistake?"

Lestrade found he was smiling fondly. "Rarely," he confirmed. "I must tell you about his first autopsy for the Yard sometime."

Holmes nodded. "Now you know the secret of our partnership. The reason I am never baffled entirely is that when the clues have not been there for me to follow, I always had Watson's instinct on which to rely and to plan our next step, the man is rather excellent at strategy as you might have discovered."

"The Great Detective of the _Strand_ accounts is not one man after all," Lestrade mused.

"It is two," Holmes finished. "Tell me, Lestrade, what was Moran and Watson's reaction to one another?"

Lestrade was still absorbing the information and attempting to change his way of thinking about the partnership between these two men. "Not well, Holmes, Watson pushed him to see the nature of the man, his actions were not appreciated."

Holmes dropped his pipe his eyes suddenly frantic. "We must find Watson immediately, Lestrade! Moran has killed men for far less, and if you have thwarted as many of his mechanizations as you presume, he will seek out Watson for his own personal vengeance!"

Lestrade reacted to the terror in Holmes's eyes. "I know where he is, follow me!"

They departed, past an upset and adamant Isadora, who nearly fainted when she saw the man leaving with Lestrade.

_I think that reaction is going to happen frequently in the next few days!_

Lestrade thought with a grimace as he hailed the next cab by.

* * *

**Story Notes: **I know many of you think you know what's coming, I am going to do my best to prove you wrong!

Stay tuned!


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Notes: **If there was a buzz word for this chapter it would have been tension. Holmes is back but Watson and Lestrade have a preexisting relationship that works for them. The dialogue and the interactions were...interesting to say the least.

Nuff said.

**Bart**

* * *

**Doctor John Watson, Police Surgeon: Scotland Yard 5**

**One Last War**

**Chapter Four**

_ I have talked to Colonel Moran several times over the years. He's a shell of a man now, an empty husk...an empty house._

_ He has helped with some cases involving cults and leaders of secret organizations and became a bit of a resource, not many megalomaniacal psychopaths ever make it to lock up you know._

_ I was leaving after consulting with him on the Delineators case, he had just given me to clue that proved to be the clue needed to crack that secretive group wide._

_ "Where did I go wrong?" he asked as I neared to door. There was no further explanation needed, the topic had surfaced more than once. This time I answered._

_ I kept my back to him so he would not see me smile. "You went after the wrong man," I replied._

_ "He was the more viable target, or so I thought then," Moran replied I could hear the confusion in his voice. This was a man haunted by his mistakes and an ego far too vast to accept the failure, which shackled him._

_ I turned. "You forgot the old hunter's proverb," I informed him as I crossed the room placing my hands on the desk he maintained, inches from his confused eyes._

_ "Which proverb is that?"_

_ "Do not hunt what you can not kill."_

---

Lestrade made sure to nod at the Diogenes observer as they passed, startling the man, he confirmed the inspector's suspicions by taking immediate notice of his travel companion confirming that Mycroft was indeed looking for his brother.

Lestrade turned back in time to watch as Holmes spit blood out the window. The amateur detective had thought to grab Watson's hat, coat and cane. "I think he broke off a tooth, the man always had a wicked right," Holmes lamented holding his jaw.

"We have only two blocks, I will have this said," Lestrade replied making sure he met Holmes's disinterested gaze.

"He made it back you know," Lestrade began, "He made it back to life without you, he found purpose and completion, learned to accept existence on its own terms, found his equilibrium and standing. He did all this without you."

Holmes's eyes were as usual impassive and Lestrade knew he was throwing away his words, he doubted Holmes could accept any rebuke from the likes of him.

"Three undetected murders in one year won't do, Lestrade. But you handled the Molesey Mystery with less than your usual — that's to say, you handled it fairly well."

Lestrade rubbed his temples in a place that only Holmes had ever made ache. "The undetected murders were a serial, Alister Eads, and we have plugged that leak with a new cross referencing filing system. Victor Molesey case was one of the first with Watson, he figured out that Molesey was the herpetologist who smuggled in the Taipan, which bit Robert Jenkins, from Southeast Asia not I."

Holmes was silent for a moment, his gaze distant. "I assume that I have been supplanted then?"

Lestrade detected a hint of uncertainty, just a small grain doubt in the detective's voice, one that he had never heard before. "We lamented your absence, Holmes, we compensated the best we could, but you will never be replaced. Surely you know this," he replied with exasperation.

Holmes's gray gaze was quixotic as he turned back to Lestrade. "Do I?"

The cab ground to a halt, and Holmes was out the door with a flash leaving a sputtering Lestrade to toss a quid to the startled cabby and dash after his long legged stride.

He caught up as the taller man made the gates, and strode through the markers, Lestrade had a flash back to a despondent Watson that first day when Mycroft has brought him here to recruit the man.

Watson, seated in the same place by his wife's grave, his shoulders slumped in much the same manner as the earlier encounter.

His face was flushed and he looked more disheveled now than when he left his practice earlier. Lestrade wondered what had occurred in the interim to cause his bedraggled condition.

"There he is, Mary, and you did not believe me. I told you that he was alive somewhere," Watson remarked to the stone marker. Lestrade was beginning to worry that the man had left his senses.

Holmes stopped abruptly, his eyes scanning the surrounding grass; Lestrade followed his gaze and saw the torn patches and signs of a massive struggle. He studied Watson and was concerned by the stains and a bit of blood running down a cut on his right arm visible through a torn sleeve.

"Watson, are you injured?" Holmes called. "I see signs of five different assailants."

Watson let a bitter bark of laughter before producing a broken shovel handle nicked in multiple places and the metal spade broken off. "It is nice to see your abilities have not atrophied, Holmes. They are recovering behind yon sarcophagus; they wished to take me alive, I had no such restraints, however you were wrong in the specifics, there were only four attackers."

Lestrade saw a look pass between the two men, one that communicated more information that was verbally possible. Even after their separation, the men had a connection that was deeper than any Lestrade felt he could possibly ever have with Watson. He felt a pang of disappointment but he steeled himself for the inevitable reality. "I'll summon a constable," he called turning to leave them to a conversation to which he should not be privy.

"Holmes can summon the constable," Watson called before he had gone more than three steps.

He turned to Holmes. "While you are informing them, be sure to add that there is need of an ambulance, I'm fairly certain one of those blokes has some broken ribs, and for the gent with the knife, who did this," he stated pointing to the cut on his arm," he'll need a trip to the dissection rooms of the Yard."

Holmes handed Doctor Watson his belongings and turned to head out to the street. Lestrade saw stiffness in his shoulders as he did so. The stride was choppy and angry as he nearly gave Lestrade a knock he brushed past.

Lestrade stood gaping at his friend, his mind unable to adjust.

Watson grinned and rolled his eyes. "Thought I'd abandon you that easily, mein gott are you dramatic."

Lestrade shot him the look he deserved certainly ruined by a smile so wide it hurt his jaw. He gave Watson a handkerchief to bandage his arm.

"Quickly, before Holmes returns," Watson murmured as he worked. "Holmes has some sort of plan in place, he would not have revealed himself to me unless he was ready to unveil it, usual modus I'm afraid.

Undoubtedly, my own conflict with Moran and his taciturn collective of thuggery here has thrown a cog loose concerning my continued participation. He will express a desire for me to leave London for the duration for my own safety, as to not interfere with his showdown with the Colonel. You must accompany me, at all costs; I have plans of my own."

Lestrade glanced at the street as a constable's shrill whistle pierced the air. "How do I accomplish this without his suspicion, I am not a thespian by any measure?"

Watson gave him that impatient we-do-not-have-time-for-your-insecurities look that Lestrade had come to recognize in their months of close association.

"The constable is summoning compatriots and the Paddy Wagon is enroute, if I am permitted to rejoin the conversation," Holmes called in an impatient tone. Watson's face showed a flash of anger. "I have no objection, if you can stay alive long enough, that is."

A smile flitted across Holmes's features at his former flat mate's pawkishness. "I believe I can remain among the living for a bit longer, we need a bit more privacy there are matters to discuss."

"More private than a cemetery, have you become supernaturally inclined in the intervening years?" Watson shot back with impatience.

Holmes looked taken aback, his vast intellect made an adjustment, obviously needing to compensate for Lestrade's insertion into the affair. "Very well, I cannot tell you all I know, there are certain parties that must give their leave, however there are some aspects which are within my purview, to share. This place, however, is not conducive to such efforts." His voice trailed off as he nodded to Mary's marker.

Watson's eyes softened. "You are correct, I apologize. Shall we adjourn elsewhere?"

"To Baker Street," Holmes suggested with some eagerness revealing that his plan required that location.

Watson nodded. He leaned on his cane, leaving the shovel handle against a nearby tree trunk as he struggled to his feet, wincing enough to show that he might have more injuries under his shirt as he struggled into his coat. Holmes and Lestrade found other things to engage their gaze while he settled.

"Did she suffer overlong?" Holmes inquired, his voice tinged with regret.

Watson paused, glancing down to the well-maintained plot of earth. "It was merciful and quick; she took ill suddenly and the congestion had compromised her heart before I knew of it."

Holmes began his condolences but stopped when Watson raised his hand. "There will be years to discuss this matter, Holmes, at present there is a war to be fought."

Holmes agreed with a curt nod the constables began pouring in, following Watson's gesture they began rousting two beaten men able to stand, both larger than the Doctor, and formidable in appearance. Moran did not send duffers to abduct Watson, making the lone medico's accounting all that more impressive. The constables left Watson alone when Lestrade informed them that he would bring in the man's statement himself.

"You must be getting soft, Watson, if those four men could damage you to this extent," Holmes remarked in an offhand manner.

Watson shrugged. "I did not have my cane with me, and I have been recently ill, still yet you are correct, I have no excuse to offer."

Lestrade watched for sign that they were teasing, but saw not so much as a twinkle as they left the cemetery for their former Baker Street lodgings.

He wondered in an idle manner about Mrs. Hudson's reaction. She was a formidable lady to be sure, if she took Holmes's deception badly it would not go well for the detective.

They disembarked with Holmes and Watson checking the streets for observers. "There is one up on this end, his shoes have a military shine but I don't think he's Diogenes," Watson remarked under his breath. "No, the Diogenes observer is at the far corner, down street," Holmes replied as they crossed to the stoop.

They were nearly to the door when it opened from the inside. Mrs. Hudson took in the three visitors with a surprising lack of reaction.

"So you finally turned up, did you?" she remarked crossing her arms with a glare to shy a stallion charging at full gallop.

Holmes did not seem at all surprised by her words. "I take it you maintained my rooms as I left them."

"Better than, since you left them in ruins," she informed with a warning tone.

"You knew?" Watson asked the woman, his voice strained.

Her face shown with compassion as she replied, "I figured it out on my own, insisting I keep rooms of a dead man, then being willing to pay rent and a half to keep them empty, it was the only logical explanation. I am not as big a fool as Mister Holmes and his brother presume. You knew he was alive somewhere, Doctor, I could see it in your eyes. I believe you ignored your own instincts so you could function. I was not about to knock you from that precarious perch, I promised Mary."

From the look on Watson's face, Lestrade could tell that Mrs. Hudson's words had the desired effect. "Go on up I'll bring tea," she finished, indicating the stairs to 221b. As she walked away, she called back over her shoulder, "try not to muss the place, Mister Holmes, in your absence I have grown rather used to it being clean."

They took her advice and soon Holmes sat in his favorite chair tuning his violin with casual familiarity, enjoying the familiar surroundings as he settled in.

Lestrade felt a sense of familiarity creep in as he watched Holmes tune with a briar in his lips.

"Well, Holmes, I am thinking that time is of the essence so shall we begin our talk?" Watson remarked from his desk where he had his spare medical bag laid out to bandage the wound more permanently. He had his torn shirt off and Lestrade saw blossoming bruises across his muscular back as he bent to his work.

"It started at Reichenbach," Holmes began, "at least this business with Moran. There are other matters concerning my absence that must be addressed in appropriate company, you must not pursue that line."

Lestrade and Watson exchanged a look. "Agreed," Lestrade answered for them both. Holmes eyed their exchange with curious eyes then continued.

"After the combat which resulted with Moriarty's demise, words the man had said to me deeply disturbed my faculties, causing me to realize that until I could sort matters I was a danger to all around me. I could not bear to think that I would bring death to those I valued, so the decision was made to allow myself to be thought dead until I could get to the truth of the events."

"What was the truth, at least the part that we are permitted to hear," Lestrade inquired.

Holmes plucked another string and twisted a knob as he continued his explanation. "I was climbing the ledge to the plateau above in case I was being observed when I was nearly killed by a falling boulder, I managed to cling to the ledge and swing myself to the side where I found concealment in a nook. I heard a man talking above me.

"Inform the others, Moriarty is dead, Holmes is just below, we will finish him shortly, I will be taking the reins, if there are objections we kill them. Understood?"

"Taking the reins of what?" Watson remarked through teeth clenched around a bandage, which he was holding in his teeth as he treated his wound with a painful disinfectant, his eyes flashing anger at the blasted rebelling pain nerves.

Holmes went silent, debating his next words. "Moriarty was at the head of an organization that reached into the furthest points of the empire and that had ties all the way to the upper echelons of government, which is all I can say at this point."

"I thought he was a mere crime boss that controlled a vast enterprise, "Lestrade remarked leaning forward to catch Holmes's gaze.

Holmes used the violin bow to scratch his back as he shrugged. "Creating a criminal empire then siphoning off the funds to bankroll an organization with worldwide aims makes it nearly impossible to detect because the money produced would have no trail to follow. Moriarty was an even greater genius than I could have imagined."

"The encounter at the falls was an assassination of Moriarty, no matter who won," Watson concluded as he wrapped his arm the last round.

"Precisely," Holmes confirmed as he raised the violin to his chin and began to play.

PLINK!

He barely pulled the instrument away in time as a string broke. He stared at the offending catgut with loathing. "I may have been away too long."

"You can buy new strings after this is over, I assume you have a plan," Watson remarked as he crossed the room sliding a clean shirt that he had found in his old quarters into place, fastening the cuff.

Holmes grinned like a magician about to reveal his trick. He walked over to a window overlooking the back courtyard; he struck a match to light his pipe. There was a bird whistle from an alleyway that Lestrade remembered when he was creeping up on 221 Baker to rescue Mrs. Hudson.

Watson listened for a few moments. "That whistle was from Charlie, you involved the Irregulars?"

Holmes nodded. "I needed to move an item around London without being seen, I reacquainted myself with them last night, and I found out that most of them now have jobs? Who was behind that travesty?"

Watson's gaze was unrepentant. "If you so much as endanger one of my lads, we will no longer associate, am I clear?"

"Your...lads?" Holmes replied sputtering in anger.

"You heard me," Watson confirmed as Lestrade stood between them. "You two need to end this pissing contest right now, we have too many enemies without to be fighting within!"

Holmes smirked. "Pissing contest?" he remarked, "now that is crude, Lestrade."

"You have to over look the good inspector, Holmes, I have attempted to round off some of the edges but I'm afraid it is too Herculean a feat for such as me," Watson teased.

"Oh, sod off, both of ya," Lestrade replied with exasperation.

There was a muffled thump from the bottom of the stairs, they could here Mrs. Hudson scolding them to be careful with the floors, and then ask if they wanted some biscuits.

"We better help them, Lestrade," Holmes said as he headed for the stairs. Watson was about to follow when Holmes stopped him gesturing pointedly at his newly bandaged arm. All he received in reply was an irritated stare, he relented and they both went to lend the struggling young men aid.

"Whatchu got in dis trunk, Mistah Holmes, rocks?" Lestrade heard Wiggins complain. He saw Holmes and Watson struggling as they got the trunk to the top of the stairs, they managed to reach the landing with help of Geezer and Wiggins.

The taller boy collapsed onto an ottoman after Holmes had them set the trunk near the outside window. "I nearly broke a spoke on tha cab, Mister Holmes, I need some extra compensation if you don mind."

Holmes shrugged as he opened the catches on the trunk. "You lads did not need jobs, how is that going to affect your availability to me?"

"Charlie has a shoeshine stand which can be set up anywhere. Two Eye Tommy runs for the apothecary and can carry messages undetected all over the city. Bobby's a newsy and hears most of the gossiping that occurs around the street corners and will tell you for a pea. Wiggins here is the best bus in the city, he works shifts at multiple restaurants which cater to politicians and their ilk they tend to talk without paying attention to whose cleaning the next table. Geezer here has his own hansom, moves about the city at all hours, and has grown into an excellent observer. They are mobile and available and beyond that they are earning money while they do it." Watson finished. He added, "It was all Mary's idea."

Holmes was silent, his face impassive but Lestrade could tell his embarrassment from his ears. "Very well," he concluded, "I approve."

Wiggins rolled his eyes. "We's so happy to hear dat you do, Mistuh Holmes, anything else you be needin, I gotta shift at Mancini's to get to."

Charlie made the top of the stairs with biscuits in both hands and two in his jaws, "Wannfff biffcuit?"

Wiggins turned him around and marched him on down ahead of them.

"That lad is like a horde of locusts," Watson lamented in a fond tone. "Now what's in the trunk, Holmes?"

He opened it with a flourish and Lestrade did a double take. "That's you, Holmes!"

"That's wax," Watson replied.

Holmes nodded. "I had the best wax workman in Musée de Cires de Paris**, **France create this bust of me. I placed a letter letting Moran know I was back in London and willing to discuss the details of his surrender. He is finished and he knows it. He will bring his weapon and attempt to kill me. The firing sight is in an empty dwelling across from this parlor, I will be there when he fires to catch him in the act with his weapon of choice."

"But he will send an underling," Lestrade began...

"Actually, his behavior shows that he enjoys doing his own killing," Watson interrupted, "He killed Patterson, and the Diogenes Club is in a straight line between his abode and The Tankerville Club where he played cards with Ronald Adair so I believe he killed the guard as well. He also dropped the boulder on Holmes with his own hands; this is a man who allows no proxy when it comes to murdering his enemies."

"Precisely," Holmes confirmed. Suddenly his face became stern. "However, you need to leave London tonight, Watson."

The temperature dropped in the room a few degrees Lestrade sensed it. Watson's cold gaze found his former flat mate with deadly accuracy. "I beg your pardon?"

"You have insulted Moran, at the moment you are the larger target in his mind, but if he cannot locate you, he will make his appointment with me, you must not be in the city for my plan to work," Holmes informed with a pleading tone.

"Of all the arrogant, self-centered..."

CLICK

Watson's tirade ended by the sound of a bracelet locking into place around his wrist; he glanced down to see that the chain led to the other around Lestrade's own.

"I agree with Holmes, I will escort you myself," Lestrade said in a quiet tone that allowed for no contestation.

"Don't do this, Lestrade, please," Watson pleaded.

Lestrade shook his head adamantly. "I nearly lost you today, John, I will not allow your pride to jeopardize you further even if it cost us our friendship."

"Charlie," Watson called out suddenly.

"He left with the others," Holmes remarked his face showing confusion.

Watson smiled, "No, there was still food to be had."

There were some running feet on the stairs and Charlie popped into the sitting room stuffing a napkin of biscuits into his coat. "What does ya need Doc?"

"I need you to run a note to the Yard, is there anything you need to send Lestrade?"

"Who do you trust, Lestrade?" Holmes implored, "I trusted you to be at my side for the arrest."

Lestrade thought for a moment. "Gregson, that big Swedish bastard knows about the mole in the Yard, he's an ass but I'd bet me life on his honesty."

Holmes nodded, "Then so am I."

They sent Charlie off with the pocket not stuffed with biscuits containing two letters.

"Be careful of the firing site, Holmes, it may have an explosive device guarding it," Watson said with a sigh of resignation.

Holmes looked stricken at the thought of Watson leaving his side, he snapped back into present. "How do you know?"

"That's how Mayweather died," Lestrade supplied.

Holmes perked up, his eyes flashing with interest. "Algon Mayweather, the Ghost was in London?"

"Long story we don't have time for, Holmes, just mind my words," Watson concluded.

Their eyes met, there was more information passed, Holmes nodded as if he understood what was not being said.

"Be careful of tails," Holmes said in the way of goodbye.

Watson and Lestrade left without another word.

They hailed a cab as they hit the street, upon embarking, Watson held up his wrist for Lestrade to take off the cuff.

"We need to wait to leave the city, Lestrade, give them time to organize."

Lestrade removed the bracelet as he inquired, "Who?"

Watson gave him that lopsided grin as he replied, "The men who are going to kidnap us and take us to Moran, of course."

* * *

**Story Notes: **I know my die hard Holmes fanatics are going to be up in arms that Watson seems to trust Lestrade more than he does Holmes at the moment, but might I point out that Lestrade has been his good friend and salvation for nearly a year at this point while Holmes just showed back up out of the blue expecting to renew the relationship. In terms of trustworthiness Holmes is behind the inspector in this instance.

Besides, these are well rounded characters and an attempt to portray them realistically not an ACD fit of pique. (You want Holmes, okay heres the reset button in the most transparent and shallow way possible!)

So stay tuned and remember this is not ACD's Empty House!

**Bart**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Notes: **Let me point out some things right quick before we get into this rather short chapter.

This project's name says it all, this is a story of Doctor John Watson and Scotland Yard. If you want a story with Holmes and Watson you might want to consider **ALL** of the other projects that are out there.

My version of Holmes is true to ACD's, a cold calculating fount of logic and facts completely (and deliberately I might add) devoid of most human emotions. Yes he is friends with Watson, but he doesn't understand why, he just came back from three years feigning death so Watson in spite of ACD's flawed work is not feeling exactly trusting and snuggly to Holmes at the moment. These are Victorian gentlemen so out pourings of affection and emotion are OC!

At least that us how it is going to be in this work. Also bear in mind that this is a plot arch, Holmes and Watson do eventually restore some affection and repair some part of their relationship and go on to have many more adventures together but this is in the thick of things.

rant over...let the defections begin.

Okay for those of you who are left and willing to hang in there with me enjoy!

**Bart**

* * *

**Doctor John Watson, Police Surgeon: Scotland Yard 5**

**One Last War**

**Chapter Five**

_Lest you think me addled, or fatalistic, I feel I need to make a defence of my following Watson on that day._

_Yes, it is true that Moran was head of a lethal cabal whose scope we had no way of knowing. Yes, this same man was responsible for the deaths of at least three men in my experience up to that point. Yes, he had ready and able killers in his employ that would most likely bear Watson ill will._

_Yes...I should probably stop there..._

_---_

Lestrade took the declaration in stride.

"So we are intentionally allowing Moran's men to abduct us and take us to an undisclosed location. Without any support or backing I am to presume?"

Watson smiled. "You are correct. You do trust me, don't you Giles?"

Lestrade let out a weary sigh. "Of course I trust you...but have you gone mad?"

"If I had, would I be aware?" Watson remarked with a smirk.

"Where to, gents?" the cabby called down with a slight accent that Lestrade could not place.

Lestrade gave his home address. "If I am to die it will be in comfortable clothing with my wife's cooking in my belly."

"Now that is the spirit," Watson remarked with a sly grin.

Lestrade and Watson sat in silence; Lestrade was silently debating his further involvement thinking of Clea, when Watson spoke.

"If you wish to stay at your home, safe, I would not think less of you," Watson said quietly in a sincere tone.

Lestrade turned to him with curious eyes. "Why me, John, why not Holmes, he is alive and available now and far suited for a foolhardy rush into the jaws of uncertainty. He will be the first to tell you that I am an unimaginative functionary, a paper pusher who is more of a political entity than officer and have been for some time."

Watson studied his friend to judge his seriousness. "I chose you because if my plans are to come to fruition I need someone who will trust me absolutely, will follow my instructions and my lead. I have no doubt that I was Moran's stalking horse to draw Holmes out, but I am no decoy, a fact of which Moran is unaware."

"Moran and Holmes are playing their game, using you as just another chess piece, so Moran will underestimate the danger you pose, too busy watching Holmes for his next move," Lestrade replied seeing the implications.

Watson's knuckles were white on the head of his cane. "I will not lie to you, this game we are playing is extremely dangerous, it is vital that I have someone on which I can rely. At this juncture, I know you far better than Holmes..."

He turned to Lestrade his eyes holding a strange light, which Lestrade could not read. "My best opportunity to survive this night lies with you, I need you to trust that things are not as dire as they appear, I can tell you no more."

Lestrade smirked. "Because I am far too honest a man to lie effectively, my lack of expression gives me away every time?"

Watson rolled his eyes. "Damn it, Holmes!"

---

They disembarked at Lestrade's humble abode. Watson slipped a bill to the cabby, asking him to return in two hours, while Lestrade went to head off his wife and inform her of company.

After she answered the door and heard his explanation, she gave Lestrade a rather frightening look that he was placing her in such a position, and then she glanced over his shoulder to see Watson mounting the stairs. "Oh, hullo John." She suddenly slapped Lestrade on the arm hard enough to cause him to wince. "Why didn't you just say John Watson was coming over?"

"Sorry, Clea, I hope it's not too much of an imposition," Watson remarked as he passed a red-eared Lestrade with a chuckle.

"Never for you, now wash up," she ordered as he passed. She turned back to her husband and gave him a saucy wink. "It is a sorry thing that you brought an extra man home, I was looking forward to removing that uniform meself."

She sashayed back into the house as Lestrade let out a sigh and pulled out his suddenly hot collar.

"Damn it, Watson," he moaned as he went to change.

Clea showed her usual restraint after they ate she shooed them out of the kitchen to the sitting room to talk while she cleaned up. Lestrade kissed her cheek as a silent thank you for being so understanding. "Git," she replied with a smile.

Lestrade, dressed in a favourite suit and feeling more himself, pulled out two of the cigars from the humidor that he had been saving for such an occasion. "I hate not being able to tell her that I might not make it home," he remarked as he handed the other to Watson.

Watson lit it puffing with a content look on his face. "This is good, and you have my word, you will return home."

Lestrade gave him a dubious glance while he lit his own. "How are you so sure that we will be abducted so soon after the last attempt?"

Watson studied the cigar as he formulated his response. "If I've read Moran correctly, not an exact science I must admit, he is pulling up stakes and moving his operation. The earlier attack on me reeked of desperation and impatience, two things which he has not been to date."

"That whole affair with the impostor took months to plan and execute," Lestrade mused, "finding James alone would have taken months."

Watson nodded. "You are getting the picture; something has caused Moran to rush his play, the re-emergence of Holmes, for instance."

"The Diogenes Club may be ready to move, that information that they took from James's trunk was enough to dismantle the organization," Lestrade reminded Watson. "However, you did fail to mention how you can expect Moran to know our travel plans."

Watson's eyes picked up a twinkle as he replied, "they will know, because I told them."

He waited patiently for Lestrade to process the information, then chuckled when his friend startled. "You know who the mole in Scotland Yard is!"

Watson nodded, his eyes suddenly going grave. "We will settle with that gentleman when this is over, for now just be content that I have some manner of control in this matter."

Lestrade gave his friend a considering look. "I thought Holmes lamented that you have no talent for deception."

Watson smiled slyly. "Did he now? I might have written a negative when he meant a positive; I am a dreadful duffer when it comes to the small details."

"Such as, just how involved you have been in the solving of his cases?" Lestrade remarked with a grin.

"Perhaps," Watson replied shifting with a wince showing his bruised back was a bigger bother than he was letting on.

Clea stepped into the room carefully making sure she did not over hear anything, she was wiping her hands in her apron. "The cab has returned, should I be expecting ya back tonight, Giles?"

He exchanged a glance with Watson that told him what he needed to know.

"I will return on the morrow, if you wish to visit the Bradstreet's, I would not be opposed," he informed attempting to keep the worry out of his eyes, he need not have bothered.

She turned to Watson. "Bring him home safe, or not even the afterlife will hide you."

"You have my vow, dear lady," he replied.

She nodded and received her husband's embrace, which he held onto little more than was prudent, and then they left her nervously tidying up.

---

The trip to King's Cross station was one of tension and silence.

The cabby took a circuitous path to get there. On occasion Watson would lean enough to see behind and after a few times, he leaned back in the seat with a content smile. He raised his cane and tapped the ceiling as some sort of signal and the cabby eased into main traffic taking a more direct route.

They disembarked in the milling throng, Watson slipped the cab driver an extra quid for his contribution, and they joined the inflowing crowd.

"I'll buy the tickets, where did you say we were going?" Lestrade inquired stepping ahead of his friend.

"They will expect Cambridge, because of my schooling, so I told them Leeds," Watson replied his eyes scanning the crowd.

"Make that Colchester for three, Chief Inspector, and be very careful," stated a large, dark eyed, well dressed man who slipped up behind Watson, he had a folded coat over his arm concealing his hand which he nudged into Watson's side, Lestrade read in his friend's eyes that there was a gun under there. Obediently, Watson slid his own pistol out of his coat and into the man's grasp.

When Lestrade's turn came at the ticket booth, he bought three for Colchester in Essex.

"Still digging out from the quake?" Watson remarked to the stranger making conversation as they made to board the Great Eastern Line.

"Nice and deserted," the assailant replied.

"Splendid," Watson replied as his eyes met Lestrade's, and to the inspector's annoyance, the bastard was smiling.

* * *

**Story Notes:** This is my version of Empty House, the way I look at fiction is as a living breathing entity which has veins and skeleton and flesh and muscle and nerve, I believe that you must weave plot so that it is integral to what you are doing. I will not reveal all I know until later on, so try not to speculate about the entire picture while just looking at one color on the canvas. Feel free to review concerning this individual chapter but know that this all comes out somewhere and I think you will be pleased. If you knew where I am headed right now...why keep reading? I quote Watson in this chapter.

**"For now just be content that I have some manner of control in this matter."**

So hang in there with me a few more chapters, you have come with me this far why stop trusting me now because Holmes is elsewhere? He has been elsewhere the previous four installments and you were having a good time then! Right?

thanks!

**Bart**


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Notes: **Here we are on the home stretch. I hope you guys are having as good a time reading as I am writing. I think this is a more fitting end to the career of Colonel Moran. I hope you agree.

Sorry for the earlier rant, I was probably being overly sensitive but thanks for the encouragement and support.

**Bart**

* * *

**Doctor John Watson, Police Surgeon: Scotland Yard 5**

**One Last War**

**Chapter Six**

_One question that has haunted me all these years, if Colonel Moran was the second most dangerous man in England according to Holmes, and after the death of the most dangerous, Moriarty, inherited that title, how was it that Holmes captured him with the most inanely simplistic plan one can even fathom?_

_ When Watson published his account, I was certain that there would be uproar about the ease in which Moran fell into the clutches of the Great Detective. However, in the great sigh of relief that Holmes was indeed back among the living I heard no expected protestation, except from Moran himself. He felt the entire account was insulting to his intelligence._

_ I asked Watson why among all the details he was constrained to keep silent about the events of that night, he portrayed Moran as such a mindless buffoon. _

_My friend just smiled._

---

Lestrade made his way through the crowd, he was bumped and jostled several times, Watson and his abductor kept in close proximity just behind.

However, when Lestrade went to hand their tickets to the porter, his hand came out empty. He checked all the pockets in his coat but no tickets.

The porter gave him an impatient look, so he dug out his badge and waved it under his nose. "I purchased three tickets; I must have dropped them, if you have umbrage, tell the railroad to bill the Yard, on behalf of Inspector Lestrade."

Hoping to expedite matters, the porter motioned them by.

They found a compartment and slid inside, without being told, Lestrade handed over his old Beau Adams revolver, accepted with a derisive smirk.

"I know, I have mentioned that the safest place for an assailant to stand is directly in front of the inspector's pistol, but the man loves the old piece," Watson lamented in a joking tone.

The man revealed his own pistol; it was a long, slender barrelled Colt Navy that Lestrade had only seen in illustration. "American made pistols are the most accurate," the man informed in a conversational manner.

"Now, hold on," Watson replied, "I take offense at that assertion!"

Lestrade watched as his friend good-naturedly debated with the mystery man on the way to what were most certainly their deaths. It appeared that Watson had no fear of what was about to transpire. Lestrade found that confidence was not infectious, his own palms were clammy and he felt a growing sense of dread with every passing clack of the wheels.

"You seem to be a nice fellow, I hate you are about to die," the other man murmured at one point. "Oh, I don't know," Watson replied, "I may pull this out yet." The other man's eyes grew serious and in spite of his earlier assertion, he pointedly nudged Watson's side with his pistol. "Anything you care to tell me, otherwise I will kill you right here and save the Colonel the trouble."

Watson's eyes never lost their sparkle as he replied, "Well let's just say that I have the power to resurrect the dead."

He exchanged a look with the incredulous man, and then they both broke into laughter. Lestrade did not join them, but he shot Watson an irritated look for joking at a time such as this.

They departed the train at Colchester, the dusk had already come and gone, and flickering gas lamps lighted the train platform. There was rubble piled up further down where the clean up from the earthquake was still underway. Those who disembarked with the three left quickly, maybe feeling that there was danger about in the night air.

They waited in silence. The ticket man, having no more trains to run, closed up his shop shortly thereafter, tipped his hat good night and left like a frightened rodent escaping lamp light.

There was the sound of a clicking cane on the slats, out into the light trailed by the ever present Pierson, was Colonel Moran.

"So glad you could finally make it, Doctor," he remarked with a genial smile. His yellow eyes glittered with feral glee.

"When you make such a generous request, how can I refuse," Watson replied with a chipper air totally unsuited for the moment.

Moran's expression faded into that of suspicion. "It is unfortunate that Inspector Lestrade was accompanying you, there was no reason for him to die."

"There still isn't," Watson returned.

"No," Moran replied in a impatient tone, "you fail to understand, you are going to die tonight, I cannot leave him alive as a witness."

Watson looked around. "There is only three of you, and two of us, I don't see that the situation is all that dire."

"Pierson?" Moran growled.

His underling's coal black eyes never wavered as he lifted a lighter into the air and flicked the flame twice.

Watson and Lestrade glanced about in the darkness beyond the other side of the tracks and one by one, four different flames twinkled in the night.

Moran's eyes found Watson's his expression expectant. "You are surrounded by riflemen, even if you had rescuers, their efforts would be short lived."

"You've thought of everything," Watson said with a curiously flat tone, "I assume you have one of your subordinates pulling the trigger with your quiet rifle at Baker Street?"

"Holmes will of course capture him, thinking he has triumphed, I will lose my air rifle, unfortunately, but when Holmes hears that I murdered his Boswell and that he may retrieve the body at his leisure, I will have my revenge for the death of Moriarty. Eye for an eye and tooth for a tooth, quite biblical I might add."

Watson chuckled. "I thought those thugs in the grave yard were a bit subpar for your standards, you just wanted to drive me out of the city and into your clutches."

Moran's smile was predatory.

Watson shrugged. "If I am to die, Colonel, I am going to take you with me."

The bodyguard tensed, but Moran held up a hand. "How are you going to accomplish this great feat? I am very curious to know."

"By the rule of the Queen's Regiment, and by the agreement of all gentlemen defending her name, I declare you Colonel Sebastian John Moran without honour, and demand satisfaction. Fifteen paces, by regimental rules on this ground, will you comply?" Watson declared loud enough to carry into the night and listening ears.

Moran's face went cold. Lestrade saw the other two men exchange a glance. There was a weight to Watson's words, a solemnity that even a non-military man like Lestrade could sense. Watson was laying this trap all along. A duel of equals, even surrounded by his men, Moran was suddenly vulnerable.

"Do you comply?" Watson restated.

A flicker of something passed behind Moran's eyes, the power in the moment changed hands, now Watson was the aggressor, Lestrade never admired Watson more, or feared for him less than in that moment. There was a silent battle of wills as Moran weighed his options and found what Lestrade knew already; to keep the respect of his very dangerous group of men he had no choice. He had failed to see Watson as anything but an extension of Holmes to his detriment.

"Pierson will be my second," Moran responded.

"Lestrade will count out the paces," Watson agreed.

Moran nodded to the man who had escorted Lestrade and Watson to this place. Watson received his revolver with all but one cartridge removed.

Moran removed his jacket showing broad muscular shoulders and accepted a pistol from Pierson's shoulder holster. "If Watson wins, shoot his friend first, if he loses, shoot his friend before he dies. Either way, he will watch Lestrade perish. He wins nothing from this.

Pierson nodded and his eager obsidian gaze found Lestrade, causing the inspector to feel a chill.

Watson walked up to Lestrade. "Don't worry old boy, you can count to fifteen? I failed to inquire."

_Even in the face of certain death, the blackguard finds time to rankle me, I'll never understand him._

"Just aim true, you ignorant bastard," Lestrade growled.

Watson gave him that lopsided grin and winked.

He and Moran walked toward one another, stood back to back.

Lestrade had only been privy to one duel in his career, an affair between two fellow PC's over a woman, but he knew the procedure well enough.

"Moran, ready?" Colonel Moran nodded as he raised his gun.

"Watson, ready?" Watson nodded in the affirmative following suit.

Lestrade began to call out the pace, as the men stepped away, Pierson's dark gaze watching for any sign of deviation.

Lestrade glanced at both participants as he called the pace, his dread and excitement growing as the number grew higher. He noticed that Watson's pace was even and confident, but Moran wobbled as he walked, his hand holding the gun up in salute was playing across the trigger guard.

He was nearly to ten when it all happened.

---

_I am an old man now, full of years and bad memory. Sometimes I fail to remember my badge, which is indeed awkward when you go to flash it and find air. However, there are moments etched into my mind. The first time my beautiful bride gave me the backside of her tongue and I vowed to marry her someday. My graduation into the force as a curly haired bright-eyed boy, and the birth of all my children, events that are particularly clear. That moment in Watson's parlour, when a weary man trusted me enough to reveal his true state is one that is as clear to me as what I ate for breakfast this morning. I think it was potato cakes but I might need to confirm. _

_Not the least of these is Doctor John Watson's duel with Colonel Moran...one of the most amazing events I have ever witnessed, and I have never told a soul..._

---

Moran spun and began to draw a line on Watson's back.

"John!" Lestrade yelled.

A shot came from nowhere and Moran's arm blossomed red as the man dropped his gun and collapsed, Pierson moved to fire, but his head snapped back at the sound of another gun shot from behind Lestrade and he crumpled to the ground with a permanent look of shock frozen into his features.

Lestrade turned to his friend and saw Watson standing with the smoke still trailing out of his revolver from Pierson's fatal shot. In his other hand was a derringer from James Watson's sleeve rig trained on the other guard to the man's shock and chagrin. His face showed shame that he had failed to notice such a contraption on the trip to Colchester.

Lestrade glanced down to see Moran reaching for the dropped gun with his left hand, and brought his heel down onto the older man's fingers with a snap of bone.

Moran bleated in pain, cradled his hand against his injured arm, and glared, impotent and furious.

Lestrade picked up that gun and began to scan the darkness for the rest of Moran's men.

"What are you doing, Giles?" Watson called as he relieved the guard of his weapons with a smile thick with irony.

"There were four more men out there! What do you think I am doing?" Lestrade snapped.

"Actually, they lied, there were seven," came a familiar voice from out of the darkness, one that Lestrade never thought he would hear again.

Out of the black, carrying a rifle over his shoulder on a strap, strolled Algon Mayweather, looking rather spry for a dead man.

"I miss the days when men once dead had the decency to stay that way!" Lestrade lamented.

Mayweather hopped up on the platform with all the grace of a cat.

"You did leave some of them alive for questioning?" Watson remarked in an impatient tone.

"Yes, I did as you asked, even though dead was safer," Mayweather replied rolling his eyes at Watson's density.

Watson turned his prisoner over to Mayweather and the short New Zealander pulled out some rope from his coat and began to truss the man up with complicated knots.

"Who was the man killed in Mayweather's stead?" Lestrade inquired as Watson made his way over sliding the derringer back into its sleeve holster.

"One of Moran's men, he was lying in wait for Algon at the firing sight."

"He was good I'll give him that much," Mayweather called, "took me nearly a minute and half to kill'em."

Watson sighed in derision, then continued, "We figured that with all these military style manoeuvrings that someone needed Mayweather dead, and me vulnerable so we put all his weapons on the corpse and he waited until we had enough witnesses to trigger an explosion."

Lestrade began piecing together the facts. "The graveyard, there were five sets of footprints, but you said there were only four attackers."

"Mayweather was the fifth set, he prevented me from being abducted before we were ready, then at my insistence he rented Geezer's Hack and has been disguised as the cabby taking us all over the city, and to the train station."

Lestrade felt like an idiot. "My missing tickets, he picked my pocket and was on the train with us, disembarking with the rest of the Colchester stop, and then waited until you got the guards to reveal themselves."

Watson smiled and nodded his eyes shining with pride at Lestrade's accurate summation.

"You cheated," Moran growled his voice rich with pain.

Watson glared down at the man. "I was not the one who turned to fire early."

Moran's eyes were glistening with fury. "You stationed a rifleman to interfere."

Watson squatted down, wincing at a sudden pain in his side. He was on level with Moran when he replied, "Regimental rules state, when one party is alleged to be without honourable intent, a sharpshooter is stationed to maintain order. If you had ever been in the regiment, you would have known that, and would have known that I had a rifleman stationed somewhere nearby. You failed to realize the implications which show that you have been a fraud all along as I suspected."

Moran appeared truly shocked by his words. Stunned to silence, then he ventured in a weak voice," How did you know?"

Watson's face was cold and impassive as he replied, "You will have the rest of your life to figure it out, one spent in solitary pursuits, I wager, the never ending life of a coward."

He stood up and dismissed the formerly powerful man with a turn of his back, letting Moran silently contemplate his change in future status in silence.

"When are they getting here Mayweather, I assume you sent them word."

Mayweather shrugged. "They did have to travel overland, Doctor, I expect they'll be a few minutes yet."

Lestrade was getting a headache. "What now?"

"You'll see, be patient a little while yet," Watson encouraged.

"I have never seen you smug before, dear Doctor, it is not an extremely attractive look for you," Lestrade shot back.

Watson slipped a hand in his coat pocket, pulling out his silver cigarette case, offering one to Lestrade, He paused before sticking it back into his coat. "I suppose I'll have to give this back," he murmured.

They lit up and stood smoking in silence, Moran was breathing in pants quietly suffering, but Watson did not appear concerned at his plight.

They heard the neighing of horses and the sound of rushing carriages. Then out of the darkness came a group of well-dressed gentlemen with pistols drawn, they began securing the prisoners, taking directions from Mayweather as to the men he subdued in the scrub. A man carrying doctor's bag bent to see to Moran.

One walked forward. "If you blokes will come with me, we'll get you back to London."

They began to follow him when Algon reached out and rested a hand on Watson's arm. "I've fulfilled my vow, I have other matters which require my attention, and now that I am deceased I intend to use it to my advantage." He informed in a solemn tone.

Watson's voice broke up a bit as he replied, "if you are ever in London, I'll consider it deeply offensive if you do not at least break in uninvited and say hello."

Algon tipped his hat, and with a small smile on his face, he faded into the darkness.

"You've lost your shadow, Watson, are you going to miss him?" Lestrade inquired.

Watson stared after the scary little man and replied, "I have a feeling I will never be rid of him entirely."

They followed the impatient guide to one of the dark carriages, Lestrade realized from the unadorned facia that they were from the Diogenes Club.

The man opened the door and indicated for them to board.

As they obliged him, they were surprised to see the bulk of the elder Holmes cross from them taking up the other bench. He was impassive but Lestrade noticed he was eyeing Watson carefully.

"Did all go as planned?"

Watson's response was immediate and cold. "I could ask you the same thing, Mycroft."

Mycroft appeared to anticipating such a rejoinder. "I had my reasons, if you would reserve judgement, the next few hours should prove informative."

Watson and Mycroft's eyes met, neither giving quarter. "Very well," Watson responded, "however, if the explanation for your behaviour is not sufficient, I consider our earlier agreement still in effect."

Mycroft inclined his head in agreement.

Lestrade shook his head in disgust. The inner workings of the sophisticates would always be beyond him.

"Speaking of brothers," Mycroft continued, changing topics.

"James escaped," Watson finished.

Mycroft's eyes became suspicious. "You knew he would?"

Watson smiled. "James is the most infuriatingly buoyant man alive, I have my doubts that any prison on earth can hold him."

Mycroft nodded. "He was there for one week, complained about the lack of a concierge, and seemed cooperative for the most part, which should have seemed suspicious, then disappeared. We can reacquire him if that is your wish."

Watson shrugged. "You won't find him unless he wants to be found, he'll turn back up someday when it suits him."

"Feel free to drop me off at home, I'm sure these matters are beyond my kin," Lestrade interjected.

"On the contrary," Mycroft replied, turning to the inspector, "your presence was requested as well."

Lestrade and Watson exchanged a look. "By whom?" he ventured.

Mycroft's face was impassive as he replied. "That answer is not in my power to give, sufficient to say, most of your questions will be answered tonight, but you will never be able to repeat what you learn."

* * *

**Story Notes:** I'm sure there will be some complaints that having Mayweather show back up was cheesy, but I had this planned for the last few installments, and Mayweather has been one of my favorite characters to create. I think this shows that he earned his nickname "the Ghost" honestly.

I hope that the turn did not seem contrived or far-fetched, just know that there are two more chapters to go and the surprises are not in short supply. Questions to be answered, what is The Nameless Club, what was Holmes doing all those years for Mycroft, who is really behind all of this? Stay tuned!

**Bart**


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Notes:** I intended for two more chapters but I think this has gotten away from me somewhat. There is a personage in this chapter who I must treat with the upmost respect, I am sure you will agree. I know I have gotten some flack over how I have handled Holmes so far, and he makes an appearance, but I am not going to waver on him one bit from my earlier decisions. I would hope that would be acceptable but I have to be true to myself.

So reviews were slow in coming and last chapter I hope those who read will let me know how you are enjoying this. It has been rather lonely the last chapter or so.

All Holmes characters belong to ACD. All living characters belong to history.

Bobby and Tommy are all mine though LOL!

**Bart**

* * *

**Doctor John Watson, Police Surgeon: Scotland Yard 5**

**One Last War**

**Chapter Seven**

_One of the sad realities of this life that we live, is that we don't often receive the answers to the questions that beset us. People tend to do confusing things without explanation; events occur in government, which cause you to wonder why such well-bred intelligent personages made such illogical ignorant choices. Deaths and disaster occur that cause us to look the heavens in abject confusion and ask if God himself had gone daft. Men thought enemies lend aid; blokes thought friendly plant the knife, love ones desert, those reviled remain steadfast. Crusty old codgers pick up the pen late in life and write romantic drivel like the lines you just read. I look at the a pound note sometimes and wonder if that night really happened, at times I recall it as a dream, but then I check the ring finger of my left hand..._

---

The Diogenes carriage had the best shocks Lestrade had ever felt. It rolled on the surface of the road so smoothly that Lestrade nearly dropped off to sleep twice.

Watson and Mycroft sat in silence, studying one another, Mycroft with curiosity, Watson with disgust.

"Tell me, Doctor, how you determined so much about Moran, your understanding of his methodology was rather well informed," Mycroft ventured.

Watson looked as if he was loathing to answer the big man, but his gentility took over. "I understood Moran, because we were operating from the same book."

Lestrade watched as the colossal Holmsian brain attempted to ascertain the implications. "Was it a forgotten tome of Moriarty's"

"Sun Tzu, _The Art of War_," Lestrade replied, enjoying the rare moment.

Watson touched the side of his nose and nodded to Lestrade.

Mycroft appeared gobsmacked by the implication. "You mean to tell me, that all this time I have been attempting to ascertain the next tack Moran would take, I could have picked up a book at any sufficient book store which would have placed me within the centre of his thinking?"

Watson chuckled. "You and your wayward brother are at times far too intelligent for your own good, Moran was not a Moriarty, he was a soldier, granted not the soldier he made himself to be, but one who had that training. In this matter, you looked but you did not observe."

"Do not quote my own words back at me, Doctor," Mycroft replied in a cold tone.

Watson leaned forward his eyes glittering coldly in the passing lamplight as they made the suburb of North London. "I will quote to you whatever I wish, in no way do you have any power to exert over me. I am not your brother, or a governmental underling to torture, nor do I have any ties with the military outside of my status as a veteran, you will begin treating me with respect as a peer. Your deceptions and prevarications have caused me dearly as it happens and my patience with you wears thin," he informed in a dangerously clipped tone.

To Lestrade's amazement, Mycroft slumped in his seat, his face losing all arrogance and self-assurance. "You are correct, Doctor, I have made decisions directly affecting your relationship with my brother, ones that I felt necessary for the good of the Commonwealth. I have no right to ask for your indulgence, but if you will but remain patient, I feel you will see my actions in a better light."

Watson nodded, stiffness leaving his posture. "One would hope there is a better light in which to view your actions, from this dim vantage point I am debating just how long I would be imprisoned if I gave you the beating you deserve. Fortunate for you, though I have been called upon to render violence, I have no more stomach for it."

"When did you put on James's derringer rig?" Lestrade inquired to change the subject.

"The rig is the coat, pretty ingenious I must say, I began wearing it after Patterson and the Diogenes guard were murdered," Watson replied. He curled his right hand, his fingers disappearing into the cuff, with a snap and a flick of his other wrist the derringer slid out into his left. "The trigger is sewed into the lining and rungs up the arm across the shoulders and down to a catch on the right forearm, a flick of the wrist allows centripetal force to slide it into your hand. This is actually James's coat, not an imitation, being a twin has some advantage. The coat slides on normally, and unless you pat the left sleeve it is nearly undetectable even to a search."

Mycroft eyed Watson curiously. "It is indeed clever, why did you feel you were to be targeted from just those two murders alone?"

Watson seemed to be at a loss for words as to the answer, so Lestrade interjected. "It is called instinct, you either have it, or you do not, Mycroft, one of life's unknowable mysteries."

"Bah!" Mycroft replied with a wave of his adorned thick fingers, "instinct is just another word for subconscious observation, it does not quantifiably exist."

Lestrade laughed. "You obviously have never been married." Watson joined him in a good chuckle while Mycroft looked annoyed.

Lestrade glanced out the window and saw they had crossed into the City of London. "We are not headed for the Diogenes."

Mycroft shrugged. "Whitehall has better security, and for all parties involved to participate, we must be certain of our status."

They sat in silence as they passed Buckingham Palace itself, its world famous architecture and grand hallways lit by twinkling light.

"Did you let Holmes know?" Watson inquired in a voice just above a whisper as they turned into Trafalgar Square, and the main hub of London life came into view. The passed the statue of Charles I on the left side, and turned down White Hall, Big Ben's lit face overlooking all in the near distance.

Mycroft shook his head. "There was no time to tell him. However, I believed that I would know if you survived before anyone so I did send him word to await me at my office. If I know my sibling, he will accost us the moment we depart this conveyance."

"It is nearing seven, Watson," Lestrade remarked, "If you want to detain the Scotland Yard mole, I suggest you send word since we are passing the Yard."

Watson's eyes met Lestrade's, they held the glint of an apology. "I know I have been very secretive lately, my friend, I hope you won't be upset to know that I have already taken care of the matter, that message was what I sent with Mayweather after we disembarked at your house. He ran any number of errands for me during those two hours. I feared our man would escape with the rest of his compatriots before he met justice."

He waited for Lestrade's outburst of anger. To his relief, and to Lestrade's own surprise he found himself saying, "if you thought it prudent, then I will trust your judgement, however you owe me a pint when this all passes."

Watson's eyes twinkled. "Mycroft, is there time to stop at the Victorian Embankment? This matter will not take over long in which to dispense."

Mycroft's eyes flashed with bother, but he inclined his head. "Can I expect you both within the hour at the Ministry of Defence, what news shall I bring my brother?"

A sly smile touched Watson's lips. "Since I awaited word of him for three years, he cannot begrudge me thirty minutes more, I am sure you can entertain him in my absence."

Mycroft's expression of horror caused him to chuckle. "You know he will pester me mercilessly in the interim."

Watson tapped the roof of the carriage with his cane. "That, dear Mycroft, is your difficulty, we will join you within the hour."

Watson and Lestrade departed and began a familiar walk to the Yard. "That was very petty, Watson," Lestrade remarked in a deceptively cheerful tone.

Watson smiled. "Very."

---

They walked through the gates and made their way through the hustle of administrative and down to the offices below. When they arrived, Lestrade was appalled to see that the usually busy environment was nearly deserted. A milling PC was working on filing some paperwork, he seemed anxious about something in the direction of the dissection bays.

"Perkins, what the devil is going on here?" Lestrade barked.

The man tensed at the tone, but nodded toward the sounds of cheers and exited voices.

Lestrade and Watson exchanged a look and headed that way.

They had to part the crowd of excited PCs to get down the hallway, they were gossiping and holding on to what looked like notepaper sheets, sure signs of betting transpiring. "What are you men doing?" Lestrade bellowed. They all dispersed like there was a bomb threat, leaving a group of Inspectors by the door.

Hopkins was writing notations with his ever present pencil and pad, Bradstreet was peering though the small pane of glass into the only dissection bay with a window for view. Gregson was chatting cheerfully with Jones, and St. Cloud appeared looking strangely stunned.

"What's wrong with St. Cloud?" Lestrade murmured. "You'll see," was the cryptic reply.

"Oh, hullo Giles, you two have a nice trip?" Gregson called.

"You two look like the cat after he et a canary the size of a vulture, you do," Jones called in a teasing tone.

"We had a nice time in the country," Watson remarked with no trace of irony. "You lads get my note?"

Hopkins placed his pencil back over his ear. "Yes we did, captured him in the records, just like you thought he'd be."

Bradstreet held up a large hand, Hopkins went quiet, and then his large partner waved it off, "False alarm."

"He got a bit snotty when we confronted him," Gregson called, "said, what did he say? Hopkins?"

Hopkins flipped a page in his note pad. "He said he was relieved, if he had to spend one more hour with the asinine rabble, he was going to go insane. There was no way the likes of us could get a confession out the likes of him. That is a paraphrase of course."

Jones smirked. "Asinine rabble was sor of amateurish, compared to things we have been called by Sherlock Holmes, hard ta believe e's back."

"I always liked, idiotic hoi polloi, me self," Bradstreet remarked eyes still trained through the window.

"Inane boorish troupeau," Gregson said with a fond smile.

St. Cloud snorted at that one.

"Why are we at the dissections bays?" Lestrade demanded, in the corner of his eye he saw a satisfied smile on Watsons face.

"All the inquiry rooms were full, so's we had to use one of the dissection bays," Gregson replied with a smug grin.

"Which one?" Watson called.

"We fished a gooshy one out o' tha Thames las night, we stuck im in there to keep im company." Bradstreet replied.

Hopkins added. "No Menthol."

They all chuckled evilly.

Lestrade could hear a never-ending stream of voices from within the enclosure.

"Who's questioning him?" Lestrade inquired his confusion evident.

Gregson's casually leaned on the door frame. "Two blokes from down White Chapel asked them to come in special. What were their names?"

"PCs Thomas (Tommy) Parlier, and Robert (Bobby) Darling," Hopkins supplied.

"They live down the East End downwind from tanners, so I thought they could handle a bit o' odour," Gregson replied.

Watson walked past, and up to the door. "What's the book?"

Hopkins flipped the pad over. "We are betting on how many times he vomits...annnnnd just how long it takes him to break down and tell us what we want to know."

"He 'as spit up everything but 'es brogans so far," Bradstreet added.

The sound of retching came through the door. "There they go," Watson remarked with a lopsided grin.

Suddenly there was some frantic banging on the door. "Let me out! I'll tell you anything just let me out of here!"

Lestrade was shocked to see the wane ill face and frantic features of Police Surgeon Jeremy "Weak-Stomach" Wilkins.

Hopkins checked his notes; he reached out and handed a bundle of pound notes to Bradstreet.

Lestrade finally understood St. Cloud's discomfiture. "How did you know it was Wilkins, Doctor?"

Watson pointed to the room as a new round of retching sounds peaked through the door.

"Oh," Lestrade replied.

---

They strolled up White Hall toward the Ministry of Defence, after Wilkins gave his hurried confession, downwind in the alleyway.

"Moran had just about every base covered, except you, Doctor," Lestrade said in a conversational manner.

Watson nodded. "He fancied himself more of a Moriarty. He was determined to kill Holmes to prove his superiority over his mentor; I would not be surprised that it was his words in Moriarty's ear that led to the man coming for Holmes in the first place."

"Your work in _The Strand_ saved you, the man you portray yourself as in that magazine was not a match for Moran," Lestrade mused.

Watson winked.

They ascended into the large building, before they got to the top steps a waiting man jumped out and ran toward Watson, the derringer was in the doctor's hand before he realized it was Holmes.

Holmes looked ragged and put out. "Why did you not tell me, you arrogant, secretive..."

The taller man collapsed to the steps, Watson helped him down, secretly sliding the derringer back into its holster. He sat down beside his former flatmate, placing a kind placating hand on the other man's shaking back.

"Of course, you will most likely never trust me again; I have earned your ire entirely. You are justified if we never even speak, poor Mary, if I had known..."

"Holmes?"

"Yes, Watson?"

"Shut up."

Holmes blinked in surprise, and then he saw the smile that was peeking out from under his Boswell's moustache.

Lestrade sighed in a longsuffering manner. "Do I need to give you two a moment of privacy, or can we proceed to this little travesty?"

Holmes recovered his dignity; he accepted Lestrade's help to his feet. Watson struggled to regain his, obviously feeling the bruises from earlier that day, but he shot Lestrade a glare when he offered to help.

Lestrade and Holmes exchanged a rolled eye while the man struggled, they both reached down and grabbed a sleeve and unceremoniously propelled him to standing.

"Shall we, proceed?" Watson stated as he settled his coat onto his arms.

"Answers await you," Holmes replied.

They made their way up the stairs and into the large building, one that Lestrade had passed his entire life but had never seen the inside of.

He tried not to look like a visiting Yank, but he tarried a bit behind as he stared at the massive interiors.

Holmes flashed identification to armed guards and to Lestrade's surprise; they turned and proceeded down a narrow flight of stairs.

"We have a guest coming who needs security measures. Holmes replied over his shoulders as they descended into the boughs of the Ministry.

They passed several more checkpoints, leaving all weapons behind at one point. The man searching them was so thorough that before Watson could offer it, he found the sleeve derringer.

They finally entered a large conference room far beneath the streets of London.

Mycroft was waiting for them with a man who Lestrade was shocked to find was the Home Secretary, H.H. Asquith seated at his left hand, silver haired and grave; gold Pence Nez perched on his nose.

"Gentlemen, please have a seat, we will start shortly."

Lestrade immediately followed suit. His mind was reeling from the implications. Answers was one thing, but given out by whom? Old Gladstone himself?"

He might have been prophetic because shortly thereafter the door opened and Royal Guardsmen poured through, taking positions throughout the room. The distinguished four-time Prime Minister of England hobbled through on his cane, looking like a sophisticated vulture.

"Gentleman, please rise."

Lestrade did just as hurriedly as he took the earlier seat. He beat both Watson and Holmes to his feet, Mycroft and the Secretary stood as well, Mycroft looked positively intimidated.

_Who can intimidate Mycroft Holmes?_

He got his answer as through the door, showing the grace that had presided over the largest empire in the history of the world came the Queen mum herself. Alexandrina Victoria, Queen of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, Empress of India.

Lestrade's day caught up to him with a rush of dizziness. All eyes on the Queen, no one noticed him faint until he hit the floor.

* * *

**Story Notes:** Why bring in Queen Victoria? I will reveal her involvement next installment, so trust me. I needed to end this series on an epic note and they don't come more epic than Victoria herself! LOL!

I started this chapter as a straight to the Ministry began explanation chapter, but then I meandered through the Yard and had a blast so I decided to give them their chapter in this. I do have a blast with those guys! LOL!

stay tuned!

**Bart**


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Notes: **Dialogue heavy chapters are some of the hardest to write. I have read books before where the reveal scene makes you want to drive a steel stake through your right eye! (Okay...yeah...I need therapy) There is a delicate balance to maintain.

First you have to break up all the dialogue somehow to where there is some secondary action or energy taking place that helps give the scene some life outside of the words. Secondly, you MUST make sure that there is subtext within the dialogue sometimes it is what you don't say that matters.

I have to say writing one of the most important personages in world history was INTIMIDATING, but Vickie turned out to be a sweet old girl, this is set roughly in 1894 so she would have been nearing eighty, however when writing her the other characters defer to her presence and sometimes that means that they are going to say things differently because there is the freeking Queen herself over there! Sherlock Holmes, however was the character that deferred to her the least...interesting!

I hope that this plugs all the remaining holes and make some semblance of sense. If it doesn't...I'm sure you'll let me know! ;)

**Bart**

* * *

**Doctor John Watson, Police Surgeon: Scotland Yard 5**

**One Last War**

**Chapter Eight**

_I am not immune to embarrassment. Many times over the years, I have not portrayed myself in the best light. My dear long-suffering wife has become quite familiar with the eye roll and sighs; she loves me regardless, and in some ways maybe even more. However, even now all these years later I have to say that nothing brings the red to my cheeks and the shame to my heart than that moment when in front of the most powerful monarch the world has ever known I wilted like an overwrought wedding day bride. I would bury this memory and forget that it occurred except that my dear friend Watson still enjoys referencing it on occasion. My only consolation is that the contents of that meeting will never be related to anyone else. _

_Many words have been spoken about our beloved Victoria in my presence, her strength, her definitive rule, her expansion of the empire, but the quality I will always choose to remember is that she was above all else, kind. _

_I know this because she was thus to me..._

---

Lestrade came to; his first feeling when he swam back the surface of consciousness was that of mortification.

Watson was tending to him, his collar, loosened and his friend was holding his wrist checking his pulse, hazel eyes went from quiet concern to a mischievous twinkle.

"There's my lad, are you rejoining us, Lestrade?" he asked.

"If you ever mention this to anyone, I promise you pain, most severe," Lestrade growled just loud enough for the doctor to hear. The insufferable man just chuckled.

"What did he say, is he ready to proceed?" said a very cultured female German accented voice.

"Yes, Mum, he just was telling me that he is feeling better," Watson informed her with a sly wink to Lestrade.

Holmes was hovering over them; to Lestrade's surprise, the man appeared concerned. "Are you sure you can continue?" he inquired in an urgent low voice.

Lestrade nodded and they helped him up.

The Home Secretary looked disgusted, Gladstone indifferent, but the Queens blue eyes were amused.

"I apologize for Lestrade's unseemly behaviour," Asquith began, bristling with anger.

The Queen interrupted him with a raised hand. "Do you honestly think I have never had someone faint in my presence? I rule over 500 million persons and a kingdom that controls nearly a third of the world and have done so for his entire lifetime, now here he is in my presence unexpectedly, this is more than enough to cause even the strongest man to become faint."

Victoria, when Lestrade got a longer look turned out to be a small woman dressed in simple black, shoulders bent by the years, her hair gray and coiffed, but she had an aura of vitality, strength and humour. "Let us begin."

She turned to the other two personages. "William, Henry, I would like to take late tea, my own Darjeeling would suffice, on the jubilee silver, you will need to journey to Buckingham to procure it."

Gladstone looked amused, as if he was used to such requests, but the Home Secretary looked on the verge of insubordination. The Prime Minister of England stopped his protestation with a hand. "As my Queen wishes," he replied headed to the door with a glowering Asquith in tow.

As soon as the doors closed behind them, Lestrade noticed that the guards relaxed their stances almost imperceptivity.

"Now, we can forgo all the formalities, asking for tea is a code that Gladstone and I have worked out when I need him to be elsewhere. Not having Henry in the room will expedite matters somewhat," she informed them in a more friendly voice. Mycroft waved off a Guardsman and pulled out a seat for her himself. She settled into it gracefully and the others followed suit.

She turned to the younger Holmes. "I am relieved that you have returned to us, Mister Holmes, I hope the hardships you suffered have not impacted your health?"

Holmes inclined his head. "I am no worse for the wear, thank you for your concern."

"Very Well," she concluded, "I will await your explanation of your activities; I believe that the incident at the Falls would be a prudent place to begin."

Holmes bowed and started his account.

"This entire sequence of events began with a boast from Moriarty's own lips," Holmes began. "The man believed that I was a dead man so he had no concerns about what he would reveal. I engaged in some rhetoric myself, informing him that his vile influence was ending. He replied that I knew nothing of influence; too small minded and narrow to understand the true implication, or to conceive of the power that was his to command. I thought his words mere braggadocio, so I responded, "Power? You were merely a common criminal." He scoffed and responded that I was a fool, that his criminal enterprises were just avenues in which to funnel funds into his true master work as the head of an organization that secretly held sway over the largest empire the world has ever known."

Holmes paused. Then he looked up with haunted eyes. "He said that no one was safe from their authority, from the lowest peasant to the Royal family itself. He told me to ask Prince Albert about influence when I met him in hell."

He inclined his head to his monarch once more. "My apologies, your Majesty."

"None necessary, those were not your words," she responded in a kind voice.

There was silence in the room as the implications of those last words sunk in.

"Prince Albert died of Typhoid Fever, everyone knows that, Holmes, he was just having you on," Lestrade blurted out.

Holmes's eyes twinkled as he took the familiar role of Lestrade's antagonist; the Chief Inspector suddenly realized that he had missed it dearly.

"Ah, Lestrade, there is the rub, Moriarty wished me to know how superior he was to me before I died, his ego was colossal, since he was recruited very young, his words were not mere idle boast, if he stated that he had something to do with the Prince Consort's death, then he most assuredly did. Please try to withhold your conclusions until all the facts are revealed or we will be here for the entire night."

Lestrade seethed at the tone, but he noticed that Holmes's eyes twinkled with mirth, revealing that maybe he had missed rankling Lestrade as well.

"Gentlemen," Mycroft stated in his most strident tone.

Watson just sat there with a big smile on his face basking in the nostalgia.

"Your Majesty, would you share the information which you related to us once you became aware of our inquiries?" Mycroft inquired in a subservient tone.

"Very well, my Albert was a robust man of health and vitality," she began her fondness clear, "he was never able to leave things as they were if they could be improved upon, he loved his adopted country with all his heart." She paused, collecting her thoughts. Even after this time, her sorrow was a palpable presence in the room. "My sweet Albert also had a malady of the mind, one that brought him much embarrassment, for one such as he, to have this glaring weakness was nearly unconscionable. He could not abide the thought of impurity; he washed his hand many times a day, sometimes leaving other activities to do so. He used gloves to shake hands when it was necessary then never wore them again. They said that he caught Typhoid from unsanitary conditions when he went to confront our son Albert about his activities, but he was so very careful to avoid any taint that I have always felt contracting a disease with those origins was unlikely. He had stomach trouble for nearly two years before he died, he nearly died when a horse shied and he had to jump from the carriage, all that misfortune on one man. I should have been suspicious." She sighed. "When Mycroft made his careful inquiries about my husband's demise, they were brought to my attention. Hearing his theories on the matter, I agreed to exhume Albert, and check him for arsenic."

"The Marsh Test no doubt," Holmes muttered to himself.

The Queen nodded her assent. "The tests were conducted in upmost secrecy using the Paris Institute of Forensic Science, the foremost laboratory in the world; they found a concentration of the poison in Albert that indicated years of careful administration, drop by drop. There was only one conclusion on which to draw."

"There was a conspirator in the Royal family itself," Watson remarked his voice thick with incredulity.

Her eyes flashed with anger. "Someone who sat at my table, ate off of my plates took my Albert from me. I contacted Mycroft, and we all had a nice chat."

Mycroft exchanged a meaningful look with his monarch getting her gracious nod to proceed.

"The Diogenes Club was founded to counteract another organization within the empire; this group never took a name which insured anonymity. They had not been active for one hundred years or more, or so we thought. When Sherlock brought news of Moriarty's last words back from Reichenbach our worst fears were confirmed, that not only did the "Nameless" still exist but they were extremely active and healthy."

"Where did they come from?" Lestrade inquired.

Mycroft seemed mildly surprised that the inspector would ask a question so astute, then he answered, "No one really knows, they could date as far back as medieval days, a secret group of knights collaborating for influence and land, there have been rumours of secret groups in cultures dating back in recorded history, the Illuminati for instance. The Roman's spoke of druidic and Briton and Celtic cults that undermined their efforts in these lands, there is much speculation but not much evidence."

"Once we knew the new leader, Colonel Moran, we used Diogenes agents to follow his hand carried missives to their locations all over the empire," the younger Holmes interjected, "the scope was not encouraging."

Mycroft nodded. "We discovered an organization whose numbers were many and reach was vast, the permutation of their members from the lowest peasantry to Royalty itself was staggering, there was only one way to extract it."

"You had to get a man on the inside, someone already familiar with Moriarty's mind and methods, a master actor and dramatist with an encyclopaedic memory and a vast repertoire of knowledge on which to draw," Watson remarked his eyes on Holmes. "As it happened you had a man who fit that description and who was already thought dead, the perfect secret agent."

Mycroft nodded. "We decoded the messages and determined that Moran was attempting a massive reorganization to a more military mindset with a chain of command."

Holmes suddenly sat up straight and his entire demeanour changed, there was a stranger seated in his place. "Enter Thorarinn Sigerson," Holmes remarked with a thick Norwegian accent, "a well educated ex soldier and explorer who Moran met on a big game hunt on the frozen plains of Greenland, the man who the Colonel was entrusting to handle the transition."

Mycroft nodded. "There was a Sigerson, he was indeed trusted by Moran, we abducted him and my brother spent days gleaning what he could, then he took Sigerson's place, and we shipped the real Norwegian to The Colony. That was before we found out there was a way to escape, of course."

Holmes gave his brother a questioning glance, the elder Holmes gave him a telling look and they moved on.

"When I left England, Watson, you were coping," Holmes informed his former flatmate his voice thick with regret. "You began accepting patients again and by all appearances you had begun the process of moving on. I saw no reason to prolong your healing process, the mission on which I was embarking was the most dangerous of my career, and I had no reasonable expectation of ever seeing London again. I could not let you know I was alive only to lose me once again. I actually believed that my presence was holding your marriage back from what it could be. That I was doing the best by you and Mary with my absence."

His tone became cold and angry as he said. "I trusted my brother to keep me informed."

Mycroft began to speak on his behalf but the forgotten personage in the room cleared her voice. "Your ire is seeking the wrong target, Mister Holmes."

Holmes turned to his Queen. "Whatever do you mean?"

She was speaking to Holmes but her eyes found Watson's. "I swore everyone involved in this affair to secrecy, we had no way of knowing just who was compromised. However, Mycroft brought it to my attention that Doctor Watson had suffered bereavement, one in which I had an immediate empathy. He asked that I lift the restriction because he believed that Watson was floundering dangerously, and that his brother would wish to know so he could help."

"I spent time on the decision I was asked to make." She stated turning to Watson. "The choices were clear, did I take out most important asset out of the field to come home and offer comfort to his friend, jeopardizing our activities at a delicate juncture, or would I withhold the information in the hope that Holmes made it back to English soil, and that you would still be there to greet him."

Her blue eyes were steady, but penitent. "As a fellow wearer of black, my sympathies lay completely with your plight, Doctor, but I had a duty to ensure that my kingdom was free of this taint once and for all. I ask that you forgive me my hypocrisy."

Watson's face was stricken with emotion; he stared down at his hands attempting to compose his features. After an interim, he looked up; he had a smile on his face. "Far be it from me to place my own needs before that of my country."

She read the sincerity in his eyes. Her expression became wistful. "Albert would have liked you, I am sure of it."

She steadied herself and cleared her voice of any tell tale emotion. "There are some matters in which to dispense, if you will tarry a bit longer."

She turned to Mycroft. "Mister Holmes, there will be no vote of confidence as long as you live, England needs you at the helm of the Diogenes for as long as you can manage." The large man nodded his thanks, completely cowed by her words.

"As for your brave brother," she turned to Holmes," You will never be required to take a case for the sake of monitory expense, for the rest of your days you will have the freedom in which to choose."

Holmes began to protest about his flat rate, but Watson shifted in his seat, there was a sound of a meaty thump under the table and Holmes answered in a strained pain filled voice, "Yes Mum."

She turned to Watson. "I can never replace all you've lost, Doctor, and I know you will not accept monetary compensation, so I will take care of the expenses that beset you and your practice only, giving you the freedom to move if you should so choose."

She made a pointed nod toward Holmes who was still rubbing his shin angrily.

She turned to Lestrade. The inspector felt the world get a little hazy once again, but he dug his nails into his palm letting the pain keep him cognisant. He would not faint before his Queen again if he could prevent it.

"I asked you here for an entirely unrelated matter," she began, "I know the FitzRoys. They are dangerous consummate politicians, and I am not particularly fond of the next in line who is promising to be the most odious yet. When he caught in scandal, I sent out an agent to ascertain how such a skilled manipulator could possibly be entangled. To my delight, my representative brought me a tale of how a lowly Metropolitan Police Inspector had out manoeuvred the man to the detriment of his future career prospects. I cannot help you directly that would compromise this meeting, however..." She held out a hand to one of the Royal Guards, the man slipped a ring off his finger and handed to her.

"This signet means that you are an agent of the crown, and you carry with you its authority. You will never be Superintendant as long as a FitzRoy sits in the House of Nobles; however, from this moment on you will never suffer intimidation from their ilk. When the time comes that the present Superintendant retires, I will ask that you be able to present a candidate for his replacement, a man of your choosing."

"I don't know w-what to say, y-your Majesty," Lestrade stammered as he accepted it from her hand.

Watson leaned forward. "Thank you, is the traditional response, Giles."

Lestrade glared at the smiling man. "Thank you, your Majesty."

She appeared to enjoy the interchange between the men. "I should thank you, Chief Inspector; Sir Charles FitzRoy should have that look of helplessness on his face more often. I find it suits him."

She held a hand up and the Royal Guard that handed her the ring helped her to her feet, all the men at the table stood in deference. "Good night all, you have earned your Queen's pleasure," she said. They all thanked her, with a swirl of guardians she departed.

"I cannot believe that just happened," Lestrade said as he collapsed back into his chair, he stared at the ring in his hand. Sherlock bent down and playfully pinched his arm.

"Ow! Holmes! Are you daft man?" he bellowed rubbing the sore spot.

Holmes smirked. "Just attempting to confirm to you that you are not dreaming as you are no doubt supposing."

"Don't bother waiting for me to thank you," Lestrade shot back.

"Gentlemen," Mycroft called out in exasperation, "I believe you know your way out?"

Holmes went to the door and opened it comically sweeping his arm in an arc for the other two to proceed. They obliged him and the trek back through the layers of security began.

After procuring their weaponry, they reached the outside air. The night was still relatively young, and Holmes was breathing the air appreciatively. "Do you smell that, gentlemen?"

Watson humoured him with a sniff. "A combination of animal dung, and layers of French cologne," he diagnosed.

Holmes nodded. "Politicians, shall we adjourn to more hospitable environs?"

Lestrade suddenly felt like a third, it was the feeling he got a lot around Holmes and Watson before, now he was feeling that sharp pang of envy again. This time it had an extra edge of nostalgia. He had occupied that position that Holmes was reacquiring with effortless ease. Now, Lestrade had no idea where he was going to fit into Watson's life. The wave of loss nearly took his breath.

"I will let you gentlemen go on without me, I must see to Clea, and see to the dispensation of Moran and his accomplices."

"Moran is in custody, and there were no other accomplices," Holmes informed with a sly smile.

Lestrade let the implications of those words sweep over him. "Oh, I see. Well I still need to let Clea know I survived, so I will see you gentlemen at some later time."

Watson stared at him curiously. "Are you sure, Giles?"

Lestrade tried to keep the bitterness off his face as he responded. "Go. You two have much to talk about; you know where I can be found."

Watson studied his face. "Very well, thank you for...everything."

Lestrade tried to not get let the emotion cloud his voice as he replied. "It has been the pleasure of my life, John."

He turned and walked toward Scotland Yard without another word or backward glance. It is never proper to let ones acquaintances to see you cry.

_Fainting? Weeping? Maybe I should check for breasts. _He berated himself angrily wiping the tears away with the back of his hand. He walked past the street that led down the Yard, opting to hail a cab.

He gave the address of the _Rusty Anchor_.

"Clea will wait, Bradstreet saw me at the Yard he'll tell her I am fine, I need a drink."

* * *

**Story Notes:** This is **Not the last chapter! So no pitchforks and death threats outside my mill door about where I left Watson and Lestrade!** I have at least one more chapter to go in the entire series...possibly two...dunno yet.

That information about Prince Albert is just mere speculation as far as I know no theories exist out in the mainstream about his death being anything other than Typhoid Fever or results from a long illness. Also the who bit about OCD has no proof other than he was extremely fastidious and detail oriented some thought cold, and some of his biggest reforms were in the area of sanitation. This is just for the sake of fiction...but who knows?

Thanks for the read I sincerely hope you'll review even if its to tell me I am full of what Watson was smelling.

thanks!

**Bart**


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Notes: **Well here we are at the end. I choose to end it with the two men who helped me start it. Watson and Lestrade having a chat, I think John is in a better place than he was in that first chat though. What can I say about the energy and magic that these two produce?

No words.

I was able to write this rather quickly because I had written two of the scenes last year having already composed them in my mind. I guess that is cheating but oh well LOL!

If you are still with me here at the end, thanks for reading! I hope the journey has been worth while for you as it has been for me.

Without further adue...

**Bart**

* * *

**Doctor John Watson, Police Surgeon: Scotland Yard 5**

**One Last War**

**Chapter Nine**

_I often contemplated that ring on my finger. I have had reason to use it since, and it has shielded me from reprisals involving some very powerful members of the upper class, making me proof for any leviathan. When the time came I passed it on to my handpicked successor to Collins. Superintendant Stanley Hopkins has been everything I could have hoped and he manages to keep this old relic around longer than most would have. I've outlasted Bradstreet, who had heart trouble and retired last year, Gregson left for a higher position North, Jones took a bullet in the line and was never the same, lost him this past winter. The new generation looks upon me with something akin to awe, not sure where they get that from but it has been at times useful. I will stay in this office as long as I am able, there will come a day when I can no longer make the stairs but I can still get up and down._

_As for Watson and I..._

---

Lestrade sat with his back to the door on barstool at the Rusty Anchor. The bartender, a mournful hound dog faced man with smiling gray-green eyes refilled his beer without being prompted.

Lestrade reckoned his black mood was as obvious as a foghorn on the Thames in the dead hours of morning. The place was full of Yarders but no one approached him. His fellow inspectors were elsewhere. He overheard the topic of discussion, why not; it was a deuce of a story!

_Holmes is alive. _He thought incredulously. _Bully for Holmes, _his mind replied bitterly.

He was happy the most singular mind he had ever encountered was back as a crime-fighting asset, but he felt the inevitable passing of a friend.

_How can I compete with Holmes? He is educated, well spoken, refined and genteel. Oh and he actually enjoys that damned caterwauling opera noise!_

He had come to rely on Doctor John Watson in the past months. His unerring ability to empathize with the dead, his knowledge of medical miscellanea, his gentle pawky humour in even the worse situations, his silent bedrock determination that could be both a source of strength and his most infuriating trait.

Lestrade's mind rolled back to that first moment in the graveyard near the poor man's dearly departed wife how his eyes had sparked, a fierce inner flintlock. "Why now Lestrade, why have you not come to me before? Why are you coming to me now when I have so little left?"

As it so happened, John Watson had a lot left. He had become a cornerstone to the Yards efforts in its most perplexing investigations. He had given insight to human nature, found the clue that broke the case, and had been an amenable companion.

Lestrade was also there when it ended.

When he and Watson recieved the greetings of Sherlock Holmes who had just whipped off his disguise, back from the dead after three years absence.

If Holmes was expecting Watson to faint like some wilting flower, the crack of an accurate right hook to his jaw showed him he was sadly mistaken.

Lestrade, lifted his mug and growled, "Welcome back to the fellowship of the living, Mister Holmes," then downed his drink.

It seemed that Watson was going to accept Holmes and his apologia readily enough, it was his dearest friend returned to him after all. Lestrade could not help feeling left out, all that was left for him this evening was to get back home, when he told Watson and Holmes that was his destination he did not necessarily lie; he was headed home...eventually.

He realized that he had been silently counting on Holmes being permanently gone, which is why he dared form a relationship with Watson, it would have been pointless otherwise, now he was going to miss the man's presence in his life. Oh, Lestrade had friends, the Yard was family of a sort, but that was more like brothers, Watson was so unique and complicated that Lestrade had anticipated years of association to unravel the puzzle. He finally had something in common with Holmes. Neither of them could get Watson's limits.

He drank the rest of his beer all the way down to the foam.

Suddenly a familiar hat and cane was dropped onto the bar top.

"One Australian, Tremayne, there's a lad."

Lestrade turned and saw Watson settling in, lighting up a cigarette as if nothing untoward had occurred. He was shoving an old battered brass cigarette case back into his coat.

"Unlike a mutual friend of ours, I am not a dead man recently returned, you can stop gaping like a fish tank guppy," Watson remarked as he puffed out his first drag.

"You need to be more specific, when it comes to friends back from the dead, but speaking of Holmes, weren't you supposed to be with him?" Lestrade inquired suspiciously.

Watson's moustache cocked on one end in an infuriating smirk. "This does not look like your home, Lestrade, I should know I have been there enough."

Lestrade held up a finger for another draft. "You knew I was lying, I have a tell remember."

Watson chuckled, slapped him on the back.

They sat in companionable silence.

"So where is Holmes?"

Watson acted surprised by the question. "I've never been dead for three years, but as it so happens a lot of paperwork accumulates. Why the sudden interest in Holmes and his affairs?"

Lestrade shrugged in his most surly manner.

Watson smiled. "Ah I see."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Took you long enough."

Watson laughed. "Well to me it is not an issue, so I apologize that I did not recognize it is for you."

"Not an issue?" Lestrade scoffed.

Watson met his eyes. "I can see that this will be a problem for years to come if it is not settled now."

"So, settle it," Lestrade replied turning to his friend. "Where does the Yard fit into your future plans?"

Watson silently studied Lestrade's face. "That is not the question you want me to answer."

Lestrade tried not to flinch, but he knew it was there in his eyes. "No, it is not."

"I thought as much," Watson remarked as he stubbed out his cigarette half smoked. "Have you ever asked why I came along with you to the Yard so easily that first day?"

Lestrade had indeed wondered that exact thing, but he said, "You call that easy?"

Watson raised an eye brow to let him know he saw through the act, and then continued. "Have you suffered bereavement, Lestrade?"

The question took Lestrade aback. "Not on the level that you have absorbed, no."

Watson studied the mug in his hands as he spoke. "There are three reactions you can expect, in my experience. There's the sympathiser who tears up anytime they see you because you are just so pitiful and they hurt so bad on your behalf, the guardian who insists that no one ask anything of you because you are in no shape to rejoin humanity, and the avoider who acts as if death is a plague that you have contracted, so they give you a wide berth. I thought those were the only reactions until you came into that grave yard."

"Oh?" Lestrade prodded, still confused about the subject.

Watson turned and his expression was fond. "You came into that graveyard interrupting my private moment then had the gall to be impertinent, blunt, unsympathetic, and demanding of me. You treated me as if I were acting a fool for letting myself deteriorate and withdraw from life. No one had ever dared talk to me in such a manner, not even when I was healthy and at my best."

Lestrade never realized that he had come across that way. "I am sorry if I..."

"Don't you dare apologize!" Watson snapped.

Lestrade stiffened, not sure where the man was headed next.

Watson placed a hand on Lestrade's shoulder. "You saved my life Giles, if you had not shaken me from my condition, given me a place to be useful once again, introduced me to the lads and to this new career, Holmes would have been visiting me either in the sanatorium or the morgue."

His eyes were steady and he meant every word, Lestrade did not know what to say. Then Watson added, "And if you speak to me that way again, I shall put you in traction."

Lestrade chuckled, "You should feel free to try."

They turned back to their beers, Watson true to his word bought the next round, Lestrade had to know so he asked, "So what is next for you and Holmes?"

Watson shrugged. "I spent three years feeling as if I were going out of my head with grief when my subconscious was telling me he was alive somewhere, it will take months maybe years before I fully trust the man again. I am not moving back into Baker Street tonight. I do not know if that will ever be an option. There are no easy answers for the damage between us but we have agreed to try to reconcile. I gave him one piece of parting advice and we intend to see each other for tea on the morrow."

"What piece of advice?" Lestrade asked curiosity peaked.

Watson winked, then remarked in a sly voice, "The location of a first rate dentist, some bloke knocked an incisor out, he's going to need a crown."

Lestrade had to snigger at that. "Whatever will you write, when you give the account of Holmes return from the dead? That his beloved Boswell nearly knocked his teeth out?"

Watson looked positively appalled. "Of course not, you were there, you saw me faint from the shock of it all until a sip of brandy brought me around!" There was a mischievous glint in his eye when he added, "I got the fainting idea from a good friend of mine."

Lestrade knew what he was referring to, but after a few moments of glaring, as he stared into Watson's smiling face he began to chuckle. Watson joined him and soon they were both laughing uproariously, which drew some eyes even in the crowded bedlam that was the Rusty Anchor on the verge of a weekend.

---

_It is like Clea always said about John Watson, if the man gives you his word you know he'll die before he'd break it. Throughout the years I have never doubted our friendship again, there has never been reason. _

_Oh sure he and Holmes have always had their secrets, and that language that only the other can decipher, a lexicon of shared looks and inside humour only known to them, but then again, there have been moments when Holmes lamented that Watson was spending too much time with me and the Yard. _

_Watson never gave up his Police Surgeon credentials and he had reason to use them quite a bit over the years. We solved many more riddles he and I_, _Holmes did not always need to be involved. Holmes expressed boredom at some of our cases, others took place in times when he was away, Doctor Watson chronicled his time with Holmes, but it was in with the lads and me that he found his new regiment, and when he dies he will be buried a Yarder with full honours. His name is also spoken with reverence in these hallways, for his body of work, those lofty tones are justified._

_I look back upon that year in 1894 and I have resisted thanking Holmes for being "dead" mainly because that would be poor form and seem to indicate that I wished it were so, but if he had not left us alone then Watson may have never found the work that he does better than anyone alive, and I would have missed out on the friendship that has made my second half of life more enjoyable than the first._

_I know these words will most likely never see the light of day, but I feel I must write them somewhere so that the truth is not lost in the moldy abandoned cellar of time. Maybe in some future moment when the truth of Prince Albert's demise and all who were really involved in the "nameless" is no longer considered too scandalous, then these pages will be released. Until then I will remain that ferret faced incompetent professional of the Yard, and Watson will be the jovial helpful simpleton ever at Holmes side in total awe of his flatmate's intellect. Forgive me while I laugh a moment._

_There, that's better._

_I am glad I have dredged up these memoires if only to remember how we were and to be thankful to the Almighty that he gave us that moment. I will mention this to my friend at luncheon today; it is after all, his turn to buy._

_Giles Pierre Lestrade, Chief Inspector: Scotland Yard _

**---**

**The council sat in silence when the report was completed.**

**"So what did happen to Colonel Moran and the remains of the "nameless club"?" asked the grave gentleman at the head of the table.**

**The man giving the report checked his notes. "According to the Diogenes records, Colonel Moran had a public trial, mainly as a warning to any "nameless" collaborators that if any activities were detected they would be brought before the public as well. There were raids conducted using the Sherlock Holmes information in every major country in the Empire, decimating the operation. Those who were prominent were brought before the public eye on charges that meant jail time rather than execution, those who were not, spent the rest of their days in "the colony" that operation is still active today.**

**"Everyone except Hamish John Watson?"**

**"He was never recovered, at the request of John Watson himself."**

**The grave man looked around the table. "Well this issue that has been brought before us is daunting indeed, do we rewrite history, or do we let the present accounts stand?"**

**A lady who had spoken very little up to that time asked, "Did Watson and Moran ever meet again?"**

**He checked his notes. "There was an incident around the trial, something about abduction, but Watson made it and testified and that was the last they saw of one another for many years. Then just before Moran died there is an entry of a visit from a Doctor John H. Watson and Sherlock Holmes, who were at that time both retired to Sussex Downs..**

---

His hearing had not been the best in recent years, but there was still enough left to hear the men arguing as they were permitted into the section of the prison/purgatory where he had long been confined.

"While I appreciate you coming with me, old boy, I still insist that I could have done this on my own, Holmes."

"Nonsense, Watson, your health has not been the best , this is bound to be a strain on your system, I am here in a supportive capacity only, to make sure you do not over exert."

"Why would I be bothered by a toothless tiger? The old coward took long enough to die that is truth. He outlived Lestrade at least."

"I know you wish your dear friend could have been here to see this day."

"It would have been a pleasure for him, no doubt."

The prisoner once known as Colonel Moran, the erstwhile leader of the "nameless club" successor to the great Professor Moriarty marshalled all the strength he had left to roll onto his side and struggle to a sitting position. The fluid that had settled in his lungs shifted and he found he was coughing in that death rattle way that left black spots floating across his vision.

When he could finally get it settled enough to see, there were two men in the cell with him, accompanied by a young, clearly bored guard.

They came into focus.

The tall ascetic one had crows feet bracketing his gray eyes, but little else had changed his aristocratic features, save his hair was now a sleek silver. His companion, the man Moran had called for, was thin and weak from some recent illness, leaning heavily on a cane, his moustache still held some of its brown but his hair nearly bleached by time. His face was surprisingly unlined, and his eyes blazed with bright hazel fire of vitality. This man was living on angry resolution, keeping death from his door by sheer stubborn will.

"Well, you asked to see me," he remarked with clipped even tones.

Moran took as deep a breath as his pneumonia riddle lungs would allow, "I have a question to ask, the last request of a dying man."

There was a flicker of something passing in the man's eyes. It might have been compassion, knowing what he knew of Doctor John Watson, Moran was reasonably sure that was what it was.

"Ask."

Mustering up some of the hauteur that was his before the man in front of him brought him low, he wheezed his query. "Those years ago, when you tricked me on the train platform, how did you know my army record was false? I fooled the great Moriarty himself, how did a lowly Police Surgeon cipher it out?" He hated the pleading tone he heard in his voice when he said, "Please, I must know, it haunts me still."

Watson stumbled a bit as he knelt, his companion reached out a steadying hand, but a glare from the Doctor caused him to drop it before it accomplished its task.

Watson made sure he was eye level with Moran.

"How many widows did you create, Moran, how many fatherless children? That boy, Ronald Adair's head nearly exploded by the bullet you fired, his mother and sister found him that way. His mother never recovered, his sister remained a lonely spinster the rest of her days, afraid to go out into society, afraid to love lest a quiet bullet find someone else she valued. Those broken lives are the result of just one death you caused, or ordered, I have no doubts there are hundreds more stories similarly told. Does the cessation of your life erase the penalty of your crimes? Is it supposed to create in me a desire to help you find peace? Is vengeance so cheap?"

He struggled to get to his feet, glaring at his tall companion, until the man gave him a hand up.

"Give Moriarty our warmest regards," Holmes remarked as they headed for the gaol door.

Moran watched them go; he lay back down on his side thwarted yet again. He listened as they proceeded down the hallway, slower now with the heavier tapping of Watson's cane showing the price his kneeling cost him.

_Here is my life, so it ends, a dank little room, reduced to just a number._ Moran thought wryly. He lay back down gingerly as to not cause another fit, he knew he would most likely drown from the fluid in his lungs, but he would not go whimpering, he was still a gentleman, they could not take that. He listened as his two guests departed.

"So, are you up for a show, Watson? It has been quite some time since we have been in the city."

"Cocktails at Simpsons? Well whatever they're calling it these days."

"You cannot have alcohol, old boy; you know what Doctor Pierce said."

"Doctor Pierce? I was stitching up wounds while that little shaver was still a longing glint in his father's eye."

"Nevertheless, we shall follow his advice."

"Really? Holmes!"

"Really, Watson."

"You are the most infuriating man alive!"

"Second most, and that will not change anytime soon, if I can help it."

The clanging sound of the door shut and barred cut them off.

---

**One by one they voted around the table.**

**The man at the head made the count.**

**"It appears," he announced, "that the motion to keep this information suppressed is carried."**

**They all began to file out, the lady who had spoken up early made her way to the man who gave the report.**

**"Is that the only account of Watson's years as a Police Surgeon in the archives?"**

**His disappointment at the vote washed away as he saw the genuine interest in her eyes. "No, there are many more where that came from, since you have the top clearance, you are welcome to check them out."**

**"Shall we discuss this over dinner?" she asked, her smile hinting at another possible interest beyond what was stated.**

**He finished packing and offered his hand. "Of course. My name is Karl Straid by the way."**

**She accepted his offered hand with her manicured on. "Emma Simms-Watson."**

**END**

* * *

**Acknowledgements**

The Holmes fanfiction community for their inspiration.

Shedoc's Observations series which first showed me the connection between Watson and a possible status as a Yarder

Argonite and her wonderful work featuring the world around Sherlock Holmes, she does more with minor characters than anyone I've ever read.

KCS and Agreement and Disputation this was the first reverse angle of Watson I had ever read and I lost an entire weekend to the goings on in the first months of Watson/Holmes. She showed me a new angle and perspective was possible and introduced me to the crew at Watson's Woes.

All the others who I have read and been challenged by! Most of you guys should be published it shows how upside down this world is that you are not!

Arthur Conan Doyle but not for the reasons you think. I'd like to thank him for leaving SO much room for a possible reinterpretation of the hiatus. Thanks Artie!

For the many internet resources that I have called upon for my research, Wikipedia especially pulled my fanny out of the fryer more than once!

For the readers who were willing to read a story without Holmes, were willing to go there with me and believe in the possibility of a Watson without his flatmate being interesting.

For Inspector Lestrade who I never expected, a character that never did what he was told, and made this story about a new duo. In some ways I think this story could be subtitled Chief Inspector Giles Lestrade: Scotland Yard. The fourth instalment especially took me for a ride inside his world and I left it respecting him even more than I thought possible.

For James Watson, the OC I never saw coming, but took over my life...on one hand you say "What a bastard!" but then you smile and shake your head secretly liking him just the same.

Lastly but not the least. For Doctor John Hamish Watson who made this journey worthwhile.

Cheers mate!

Thanks!

**Bart**

* * *

**LOST SCENE:**

Two old men sitting by a fire.

Holmes had been contemplating his sleeping friend. Watson was quietly snoring, something to which he would never admit. He knew he should leave it alone but he just had to know.

"Watson?"

Watson awoke with a explosion of air, "I was not snoring!"

Holmes smiled, "You were but that's not why I woke you."

Watson glared at him. "Well get on with it, and I warn you this had better be brilliant."

"Tell me Watson, how did you detect the fraud when even I thought him an ex-military man? Holmes inquired. "Moran is not the only one who has been haunted by that question over the years.

Watson let out a snort of derision. "You two think it is something complicated, but it is rather simple, really."

"Go, on," Holmes encouraged.

Watson's eyes twinkled in the fire light. "His biography, it said that he was mentioned in the dispatches, the only men who were so honored were those who stayed behind and wrote them, followed a wounded tiger down a drain? A soldier so decorated and venerated has a sense of self preservation, such an act is simply an act of fiction by an overwrought imagination."

"And you being a fiction writer with an overwrought imagination saw the discrepancy, that's remarkable Watson."

Watson smiled in that old lopsided manner when he was being deliberately annoying, "You might say it was elementary, my dear Holmes."

Holmes groaned, causing his friend to laugh softly.

It was not long before the warmth of the fire and the comfort of the companionship caused his friend to drop back off, snoring once again.

Holmes spoke to his slumbering mate. "The reason you knew Moran was a fraud, was because you are the genuine article."

"Goodnight, old boy."

----

**Consider this a love letter for all constant readers:**

**Thanks to stonegnome for the assist.**

**Bart  
**


End file.
